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Graduate Studies Legacy Theses

2000 We breathe together: Thirty-two short pieces about aesthetics in an elementary classroom

Parker, Caroline

Parker, C. (2000). We breathe together: Thirty-two short pieces about aesthetics in an elementary classroom (Unpublished master's thesis). University of Calgary, Calgary, AB. doi:10.11575/PRISM/18615 http://hdl.handle.net/1880/40733 master thesis

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This thesis is a series of interpretive accounts and reflections around the question: mat is the experience of aesthetic consciousness in an elementary classroom? It uses The Goldberg

Variations by J.S Bach as a metaphor for the unfolding of aesthetic space in the author's grade three classroom. This writing locates aesthetics in the everyday world of being with children. It seeks to drecover curriculum and schools as textured spaces where child. teacher. and parents dwell as embodied beings. Understandings of play, listening, hearing, re-membering the classroom, and the shared space of air are emergent themes. Acknowledgments

To my family, for their love and support. To the children and parents of the Purple Zen Room for their trust and openness of spirit. To past and present students, colleagues, and friends. whose words, actions, and music influenced this work. To Jim Paul, for guidance, wisdom, and aesthetic space. To Carol Blades, mentor and friend for her lessons in courage. To Angela Rokne and Yvonne Sheyka, Friends and colleagues, for our ongoing conversations about children, teaching, learning, and life. Thank you. The Variations

Variation 1. Jake and Julie...... 1 Variation 2 . "It's Always the Fault of the Grade Three Teacher" ...... -8 Variation3 . Tatiana ...... 10 Variation 4 . Overture...... 14 Variation 5. Thunder Hill: September 2. 1998...... 28 Variation 6 . "Twenty three things that we noticed about a bird's nest" ...... 32 Variation 7. Grade Group Meeting: September 1998...... 54 Variation 8. Re-Member-ing the Classroorn:September 16. 1998...... 36 Variation. . 9 . The Frog ...... 42 Vanat~on10 . Diagnostic Reading Form ...... 4 Variation I 1. Fugue: "It was a dark and stormy night" ...... 48 Variation 12 . Re-Member-ing the Classroom: September 2 1, 1998...... 55 Variation 13. Tarantella: The Field Trip from Hell ...... 61 Variation 14. Resonance: Re-form-ing the Classroom ...... 69 Vana~on*. 15 . Segue to Sunflowers...... 77 Variation 16 . Largando: October 6, 1998...... 79 Variation 17 . Largo: Reflections from my field journal: October 1998 ...... 84 Variation. . 18 . Re-Member-ing the Classroom: October 27. 1998 ...... 87 Vanat~on19 . A Rock Song...... 89 Variation. . 20 . The Aesthetics of Clay: November 1 3, 1998...... 92 Vanatlon 2 1. Scherzando...... 96 Variation Overture to Listening: The Parents ...... 108 .. 22 ...... Vmatlon 23 . Meva Voce ...... 120 Variation 24 . The Power of Song: February 10. 1 999 ...... 133 Variation 25. Bridges: January 10, 1999...... 137 Variation 26 . Sarabande...... 140 Variation 27. Bridges: January 12 . 1999 ...... 144 Variation 28 . Poems f?om the CIassroom: ...... +...... ,...... 152 "Friendship" "What is Life?" "Truth'? "Life" "Key to Life" Variation. . 29 . Con Sordino: March 8, 1999 ...... 159 Vanatlon 30 . Sounds of Siience ...... 66 .. 7 Varrat~on. 3 I . Enchantment...... ,... ,., ...... I72 Vananon 32, Coda...... ,...... 180 Variation t

Jake and Julie

My grade twolthree class is at Museum School'. Erin, a dancer that we have worked with through the CAPES' initiative, has come to the museum for the day. The morning has flown by in a swirl of African chant and tribal dance, followed by the quiet soothing solitude of the Asian gallery where we created an Indonesian gamelan gong orchestra, observed the many sculptures of Bhudda, assumed the poses offered by the sculptures. and then slowly brought the poses forth in movement studies. It has been a tranquil morning and now the children are ready for lunch.

They burst From the museum onto the Olympic Plaza3. It is hot today. The children have forgotten what summer feels like after a winter spent in a musty classroom. The searing blue of the sky makes us squint and the maternal embrace of the sun envelopes us. And the sounds - the downtown the drone of a lawnmower on the adjacent City Hall grounds, the splash of the fountains cascading in a graceful arc, and the voices of ofice

- - -- I Museum School is a program offered by the Chevron Open 1Clinh Project. Classes are invited to spend a week at the Glenbow Museum in where they are offered the expertise of various curators and museum staff as we11 as in depth exploration of the exhibits.

The Calgary Arts Partnerships in Education Society is an organization fostering partnerships between professional artists and teachers/classrooms through an arts focus.

The Olympic Plaza serves as a city square in downtown CaIgary . It was the site of the medal presentations during the 1988 Winter Olympics and presently alternates as a large fountain/pool in the summer and a skating rink in the winter. 2

workers freed fiom the confines of their cubicles - all blend in a noisy cacophony of a

downtown day.

My teaching partner" and I watch with amusement as we see one of our children approach

the pool of water. He reaches gingerly out and touches the surface of the water. then

hearing no admonishment from either teacher. he reaches with both hands and begins to

splash water on his face. Maggie-'sheds her sandals and steps gingerly into the water.

Soon the whole class is in the pool. Some children have their pants rolled up (but not quite far enough). They hold their arms outstretched for balance as they tiptoe about the pool. As they realize that the water is an even depth throughout the pool. their actions grow bolder. Tiptoeing is forgotten. They drag their legs through the water and feel its resistance and weight. The wake formed by the forward leg engulfs the pant leg of the other. Attempts to keep dry are forgotten. It is Jared's idea fim. He strips off his shirt and tosses it to the side then dashes into the arc of the fountain. Soon every child is playing with water. Some stand near the edge, splashing water at those funher in while other children dunk their heads into the pool, then raise them in a shower of gasps and splutters.

My partner and I come to (out of) our senses and attempt to recover some semblance of adult order. The children emerge, dripping, and rainbows form from the droplets of water

' This grade 2/3 class was taught by my teaching partner who ammed responsibility for the class in the morning and myself who taught the class in the afternoon. During our week at Museum Schooi, we both attended for the MI day.

' Maggie is a child in my grade 2/3 cIass. Please note that the names of all the children throughout this thesis have been changed to pseudonyms. 3

that they shake from their bodies. The sea of business suits parts like the dividing of the

Red Sea as the adults avoid wet contamination fiom the children. The children fling

themselves onto the grass or drape ceremoniously on the concrete sdaces of the Plaza in a valiant attempt to dry their hair and clothing. As we make our way across the tiled floor

leading to the museum I notice a trail of wet footprints and fervently hope that the gaze of the museum officials will be directed to the loftier ideals of art which reside up and away

from the traces of the children.

We meet again in the Asian gallery. The quiet calm which lived here before lunch is gone. Instead, there are excited whispers and giggles as Erin, the dancer who worked with us in the morning, explains the next activity. The children are to work in partnerships.

They will take a half an hour to fmd five special things that "speak" to them. They are to embody each item in a freeze or statue of the thing. Then they are to sketch each pose into their notebooks.

I feel a sense of dread come over me. This scenario has the possibility of turning into the afternoon fiom hell. I'm not quite sure if our class understands that we are no longer on the Plaza. The excitement of the children is more akin to the atmosphere of a birthday party than to the quiet excitement of children eager to explore the wonders of a museum.

My teaching partner gives me a significant look. We deliver a duologue about responsibility and appropriate behavior. We end with the unspoken agreement that I will take Jake and she will take Jonathan. I can feel her apprehension. We are trapped here 4 with our class of twenty four seven and eight year olds until the bus comes for us in two hours. If there is a problem with any of the children, we may not be allowed back tomorrow. I silently pray that no priceless artifact will be damaged.

Jake chooses to work with Julie. This arrangement is more by default than any conscious choice as the other children quickly form alliances. Jake is coded ADHD6 and is vibrating in excitement. I can almost see the electric sparks fly off the surface of his skin.

"Let's go, Let's go, let's go. Mrs. Parker!" The look in Jake's eyes reminds me of my dog when I bring her to an off leash area and make her sit until 1 release her with the words

*aildone'. There is tension, anticipation, and something uncontrollably wild in that look.

Together with Sam (who is also coded ADHD) and Jess, the group of children I have responsibility for decides that they want to go to the Warriors Gallery first. Many of the children. especially the boys, have spent every spare moment in this Gallery. They are fascinated by it. Jess and Sam know exactly what they want to do and they go directly to the display that has captivated them ail week.

Jake and Julie are not quite so decisive. They dash fiom one diorama7to another unsure of what it is they want to do. There are other visitors in the gallery so I am cognizant of

Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder is a condition that affects/eEects one's ability to concentrate. It is often marked by a high degree of impulsivity and is sometimes controlled by medication - of which, RitaIin is the most common. A diomma is a "scene" organized as a 3-dimensional portrayal of an event including characters and setting. It can vary in size fiom a miniature smaller than a shoe box to life-size. 5

the need to remind Jake to keep his voice down. He laughs just a little too loud, speaks just a little too loud, and stands just a linle too close to strangers. Julie is still flushed

fiom our time in the sun. Her hair hesher face in sticky tendrils as she darts from one

exhibit to another.

After a Few minutes of this searching activity, Jake and Julie fmd themselves in Eont of a

photograph that appeals to both.

"OK. I'll stand here and you go over there." Jake has assumed control.

Julie finds a place a meter and a half from him and says, "I'm going to do this like this...".

She finds a pose, "then I'll put my gun like this ..."

Jake follows with, "And I'll put my gun on you like this ..."

A look of abject horror crosses Jake's face and at that moment 1 feel a preternatural tingle

run up my spine until every hair on my scalp stands up. The temperature in the gallery has

dropped by ten degrees.

Jake's face is written with the story of a thousand voices fiom the Some, Dieppe, and

Hiroshima. He is no longer seven years old. He has crossed into some terribly black space

- a space that lives in the expression on his face. 6

Julie, too, feels the touch of her own mortality. She reverts back to the three year old she once was. She barely remembers the patterns of speech.

"Scared ..." she whimpers, "too scary."

Jake turns to me. His legs are immobilized with fear. He has gone white. His entire body trembles. He would cry if he wasn't so terrified.

"Let's go." I say gently. Two small hands reach for the security of mine. They clutch me tightly and close in to my body as I steer them away from Warriors and into the safety of the foyer. It is as though we are emerging from some dark cavern where we have been trapped, instead of a gallery in the museum.

"Where shall we go?" ask.

"Where will you be safe? " I ask in my head.

"Over there." Jake gestures with his free hand to the MineraIogy Gallery. -'It's OK in there."

It is not until we cross the threshold and are in the world of rocks that their hands withdraw timidly !?om mine. They seek reassurance fiom me. "It's OK." 1 say. "Go discover something special."

Later that evening I unpack my lunch container from my school bag. A prescription falls out. It is Jake's. 1 forgot to give him his medication at noon. Variation 2

"It's Always the Fault of the Grade Three Teache?'

I am in a meeting with two other teachers. We are part of an advocacy group for fine arts education in schooIs. The discussion turns to the nature of art and aesthetics.

One of the women tuns to me, "You've taught elementary. You were in CAPES. Did you ever do any evaluation of the work from CAPES?"

I am conhsed and threatened by her tone.

*'You know," she continues, "did you ever mark the art that the kids produced. After all. if its something that you teach it should be something that you grade."

"Absolutely," says the other woman.

I am left speechless. I get very nervous when someone says 'Absolutely'. How can I explain this? We're talking about very different things, but they don't even know that.

The fim woman, a junior high school art specialist continues, "You see! I'm so sick of kids who come to me in grade seven art and all they want to do is make things because that's all they've ever done with art in elementary. Then when I try to get them to talk 9 about aesthetics or art history they'll only write it if I say its worth a lot of marks and that it counts for their report card. Even then, half of them won't do it."

She slams her binder shut and states, "That's why you need to evaluate art and think about aesthetics." Variation 3

Tatiana

Another graduate class finished8,another deadline to meet but, for now, it is time to savor the company and friendship of others. There is something about a good class that makes us want to linger with one another. We decide to go for coffee at Starbucks?

I arrive first. It's very crowded and I quickly lay claim to a table even though stained cups and crumbs linger as traces of another coffee conversation. I quickly and somewhat aggressively reconnoiter three chairs. When the othen arrive I scoot into line and order and pay for the drinks.

When I return to the table, one of my fiends leaves to make a phone call and the other waits in line for our drinks to be called. A Starbucks barista approaches the table with cloth in hand, ready to clean up the dirty cups. Our eyes meet as I smile to say thank you and there is a te1Ctale moment of uncertainty.

"Excuse me, but are you a teacher?" I groan inwardly. My delusions of being a student are shattered by the harsh reality of these words from this young woman - this adult.

I began course work in a MA program when I was granted a sabbatical during the school year 199711998.

Starbucks is a chain of specidty coffee houses. "Are you Mrs. Parker?"

I nod my assent.

"Oh my gosh! You were my music teacher at Beddington! You look just the same."

I love this young woman.

"I just knew it had to be you!"

She is Tatianal0. I taught her some fourteen years ago. She is in university now, in the faculty of religious studies. She thinks she may apply for graduate studies next year. This makes us student peers and we laugh about this.

''This is crazy, but I can still remember all those songs you taught us. I think I was bad in elementary. Like, I think that teachers thought 1 was rebellious but, like ... I can still sing every song."

She starts to sing!

Jeremiah was a buZlfrog Was a gwdfiend of mine ... ad,

Ohhhhhk-klrrhoma where [he wind sweeps gently down the pZain Where the waving wheat con sure smeN sweet when (he ... " Together we go through a repertoire of songs that I had forgotten about. We are oblivious to the other people in the cafe. I realize that my fiend is standing close by with coffee

'O "Tatiana" is a pseudonym. 12 cups clutched in each hand. She is keeping her distance. I'm not sure if it's because she doesn't want to be associated with us or if she doesn't want to intrude.

Tatiana realizes that she has to get back to work and asks if I come in ofien. I assure her that I am a frequent consumer and I can't understand why we haven't met before.

The following week I dash in to get a latte before my graduate class. I have been engrossed in research and I need the caffeine to keep me alert.

Tatiana is drawing the drinks. I wait and we chat.

She says, "You know, I was thinking about music after we met and it's so weird how, like, all those songs come back to me. I've been driving my parents crazy for years singing them. Like, 1still remember when you taught us 'Dona Nobis Pacem'. My very first 'Dona Nobis Pacem'..,"

Her hands freeze. One holds the tilted steamer cup and the other a spoon, ready to carefully keep the foam from spilling too quickly into the cup. I silently will her to work a little faster. I'm going to be late for class! Then I regret my thoughts because she says,

"I remember how you used to turn out the lights and then we'd sing. I can stillfeel it...." I3

Her voice drifts off and I too am back in that darkened classroom with a group of ten year olds, singing a piece that is close to four hundred years old. A work of music that will last longer than either of us - even youMTatiana.

"Like ... its so weird that I can still feel it and remember it ... Here's your latte."

I thank her for the coffee and conversation then scurry out the door and into my car.

When I get to class, I am glad that we are not starting with a group discussion. I need a moment to make Tatiana's moment my own. Variation 4

Overture

Whar is the experience of aesthetic consciousness in an elementary ciussroom?

The arrival of the question which infuses this work was not so much a matter of asking the right question but one of recognition and recovery of a question that had always been there.

I have been a teacher for twenty-two years. Across these years of practice I have observed and experienced countless looks, gestures and words which were fraught with aesthetic meaning. But all too often, I dismissed the opportunity to question and inquire what the looks of Jake, Julie, Tatiana and others might mean. Instead. I was caught in the swirl of the consuming routines and work of the classroom: planning, searching for resources, responding, marking, assessing, evaluating, writing report cards, conferencing with parents, staff meetings, grade group meetings. committee meetings. school resource group meetings, inservicing, to name but a few.

In the fust heady days of graduate studies", most of my twenty-two years of classroom experiences remained forgotten. I immersed myself in reading about aesthetic education and the literature was fulI of exhortations for why the arts are important (Eisner, 1991;

" I began graduate work when I was granted a Professional Improvements Leave (sabbatical) during the 1997/1998 school year. 25

Eisner, 1993; Eisner, 1997; Greene, 1984; Greene, 1994, Greene, 1995; Spychiger, 1995;

Sylwester, 1998) as well as examples of teaching practices which valued art education

(Darhgton, 1994; Eisner, L 984; Fowler, 1994; Gilles, 1998; Thompson, L 992;

Weinberger, 1998). These authors and their actual and proposed practices regarding aesthetic education were tied more to the tenets of Discipline-Based Art Education and methodology than to the experience of the individual as an aesthetic being. tndeed, there were no stories of seven year olds' experiences in a museum in the readings of

Discipline-Based Art Education.

The more I read, the more jaded I became. Perhaps, I was the one who erred. Perhaps, my idea of aesthetics in education was a thin, misguided version of what the published experts in fine arts education ( Amdur, 1993; Asmus and Haack, 1996; Colwell. 1992;

Dobbs, 1992; Elliot, 1990; Fitzpatrick, 1992; Getty, 1985; Kivy, 199 1 ; Lee. 199 l ;

Patchen, 1996; Thompson, 1992) argued for. The proponents of Discipline-Based Fine

Arts Education viewed the arts as "a set of knowledges, key ideas and learning skills that everyone should possess" (Colwell, 1992,42). Aesthetics was assigned a place on a flow chart (Asmus and Haack,1996,28). Aesthetic inquiry held goals of producing students who "exercise divergent thinking" and make "informed judgments" (Patchen, 1996, 2 1) through adherence to Discipline-Based methodology.

Then I read Jan Jagodzinski (1992) and felt that hdIy I had found someone who spoke to me. He wrote with metaphors inherent in the language of music, a Ianguage that 16

seemed to have 'space' for Julie, Jake, and Tatiaaa, as well as my own personal

professional practice as a teacher and a musician.

But still a guiding inquiry question would not form. The direction of my inquiry for a MA thesis remained a kind of a free floating anxiety, like the unsettled feeling 1 would wake with on the morning of a conservatory music exam.

During my sabbatical year, one of my personal goals was to regain some of the technique that I had lost as a pianist through neglect and lack of practice time while teaching school.

I began to play chamber music with a group of string players and I sought piano works which I Ioved, but had never added to my repertoire. One of these works was The

Goldberg Variations by John Sebastien Bach ( 1742).

One January evening as I played the opening aria of the Goidberg, it came to me. Was it possible that The Goldberg Varriations could form the guiding metaphor for my graduate research project? I was aware that the form, theme and variations, had been used in a film tribute to Glenn Gould, Thirty Two Short Films Abozit Glenn Gould (Girard, 1995).

Could I be so audacious as to borrow Bach's form for my own work? My mind raced as I both physically played through the piece and played with the idea in my mind. The more 1 played, the more plausible it became. My inquiry metaphor began to form. The Goldberg Variations is a work which is grounded by its opening aria. This is foIlowed by thirty variations and a restatement of the opening aria. Each variation could stand as a separate work. However. when performed in succession the work takes on greater significance for relationships between key, theme, rhythm, tempo, character and form can be heard. Each variation in The Goldberg Variations alludes to the aria even though every variation has a character of its own. Some are dance-like and joyful, others somber and profound, and still others are imbued with a deep sense of the sacred.

Bath" composed with a spiritual conviction that permeates both his sacred and secular works. All of his music is grounded in great strength even though it might appear delicate. The delicacy and Fragility do not indicate weakness.

The enduring quality of Bach's music is that no matter how many times one has played or listened to one of his pieces, something new is revealed each time. The variations are polyphonic or multi-vocal. For a pianist, the technical difficulties posed by The Goldberg

Variations lie in bringing forth and revealing the inner voices of the work. The artist must

l2 John Sebastian Bach lived in the early eighteenth century. His music holds a central position in the history of western music. Machlis (1970), in The Enjoyment of Music, writes, Bach was the last of the great religious artists. He considered music to be "a harmonious euphony to the Glory of God." And the glory of God was the central issue of man's existence. His music issued in the first instance &om the Lutheran hymn tunes known as chorales. Through these, the most learned composer of the age was united to the living current of popular melody, to become a spokesman of a faith. @. 288) 18

be able to free the inner voices, to let them sing through even though this often involves

awkward fingerings and imbalances with the natural position of the hands. Even if the

pianist is aware of the inner voices, heishe may not be successll in bringing them forth

in a way that a listener can hear. It is somewhat akin to the kinds of optical illusions

where a crone and a young woman. or a goblet and the silhouettes of a person are

presented. Sometimes both figures are immediately apparent to the viewer, at other

times, the viewer might require the intervention of someone who can point out where the

components of each figure lie. The explanation might result in an ability to "flip" the

figures back and forth or it might not. In these circumstances. the ability to see the "flip"

depends both on the quality of the explanation and the perception of the one who desires

to see the "flip".

Listening to and playing Bach is not unlike to trying to "flip" the figures. The inner voices

in Bach have this sometimes elusive quality. When I play the Goldberg, I cannot will my

tingers to produce seamless lines of sound that weave and intenveave throughout the work. Even though I am aware of where the inner voices lie, a listener might not be.

However, in the hands of G~MGodd 13, a world of depth, complexity, sonority and resonance emerges. To use the analogy to the optical illusions, it is as though Gould removes the illusory qualities. He paints the pictures with color, adds texture and depth to dow us to clearly see both depictions. In Gould's playing of The Goldberg Vmiations, the inner voices are so apparent that they do not have a quality of being interior. The

l3 Glenn Gould is regarded by many as the Bach artist of our time. His 1981 recording of The Goldberg Vmiatons is considered one of the definitive performances of the work. 19 music takes on a character of being transparent. All the voices are brought forth in a balanced flow of give and take. Their presence is felt as voices, not inner voices, and like the optical illusions, once we are aware of them, we cannot will ourselves to be unable to seehear them.

The Goldberg Variatiom is a technically demanding work but technical competence only allows for the possibility of music, it does not guarantee it. Technique allows for the strength to play seamlessly, to weave voices from notes, to add a range of color to the playing. But technical competency cannot save a performance if the artist does not hear as a musician hears. Music does not exist in a void. Every single note has a relationship to the past and to what is to come. Music lives in the space of what has been and what will be. It is as much about silence as it is about sound. The silence gives us time to savor what has been and yet to come. It allows us to pay attention to what follows. Silence alludes to a special kind of listening, an interior rather than exterior kind of listening.

Musicians refer to this as inner listening. Music is more than the transmission of notes off of a page. It is about living the notes. It is about breathing sound and silence into them so that they live a temporal existence. Thus, each performance of The Goldberg Variations is a new performance.

The Goldberg Variations is more than thirty-two variations of a theme. Bach imposed an over& schema which is not immediately apparent to the Listener. Every third movement is a canon or fugue based on the character of the previous two movements. These canons 20 integrate the ideas of the previous two movements in a contrapuntal working that is familiar but new. In addition to this, each of the subsequent canons has an additional voice so that the canons toward the end of the work become increasingly complex because of the additional voices.

The final movement of The Goldberg Variations is a verbatim restatement of the initial aria. But to all who listen and to the musician who performs, the fmal aria is vastly different from the first. A change transpires. The musician both makes and is made by the work. Everything is the same, but everything is different.

Teaching and leaning is like this. The classroom takes on a character of its own as teacher and children live through the rhythms of a school year. The class encountered on the first of September is not the same class that one bids farewell to on the final day of

June. Through the course of a school year, voices emerge, some dissonant and others harmonious. But these voices can only be heard if one is attuned to listen. And as in music, listening in the classroom is as much about hearing silence as it is about hearing the noise. Once noticed, the inner voices of the classroom can no more be (un)heard than the inner voices of a Bach fugue. The question of how to proceed is what makes the teacher an &st. We are made, in part. by the voices of the children. Our artistry arises in our hearing of voices as voices. not inner voices. 21

I play chamber music - piano quartets - with a violinist, violist and cellist. We know that sometimes, in spite of hours of practice and technical expertise, the notes do notfeel right. They do not speak to us and they are hard to make sense of. At times like this, the music does not belong to us. We have no sense of owning or creating the sounds that emerge. But then at other times music happens, we fmd it. We describe it as finding our groove, hitting our mark, and entering a state of flow. But all of us understand that describing it is not it.

Teaching and learning is like this. Report cards, anecdotal comments, progress reports. classroom observations, fieldjournals, individual program plans, inventories of behavior, standardized achievement tests and diagnostic tools have little to do with Jake and Julie's moment of terror in a museum or Tatiana's faraway look as she remembered a classroom ten years earlier. The space of learning is a living, breathing space embodied by the children and adults who have come together at a particular time in a particular place. This thesis attempts to recover the space of those experiences while understanding that at best, one can only hope to get ever closer to it. It is the ineffable quality of it that allows for its possibility in music and in a classroom. Indeed, as I pondered questions of what I sought,

I began to wonder if it might be construed as aesthetic space. Could aesthetic space be larger than a fine arts experience? Could aesthetic space escape the boundaries of what is traditionally thought of as an aesthetic experience? Could we find it in a bird's nest, or a math problem, or a poem? CouId an idea be as aesthetically pleasing as a painting? Could the children, parents and I proceed in a way that Looked at life in the classroom 22

aesthetically? Thus, was born a question, What is the experience ofaesthetic

consciousness in an elementary classroom?

This research holds the hope that it will be received in the same way that one might

embrace an interpretation of The Goldberg Variations. The accounts presented in this

thesis do not live in a void. Each of the participants comes with an inheritance of all they

have been and what they will become. As The Goidberg Variations are grounded by

Bachrsopening aria, this work is grounded by the question: What is the experience of

aesthetic consciousness in an elementary classroom? Each of these movements has a character of its own, but each movement is linked to the others, sometimes by

chronology, topic, theme or 'Yfamily resemblance's" (Jardine, 1992).

This work is based on the lifeworld of the children, parents and teacher in a particular place at a particular time. It is a deeply personal professional account of life in a

classroom and as such, is an interpretation of the occurrences there. Like The Goldberg

Variations, there are many voices to be heard. Some of them are bold and confident,

some tentative, some elusive, while at other times there are hidden voices that are faint and struggle to be heard. Each set of movements has its own character but the work is

meant to be read in its totality rather than as a set of specific incidences.

These accounts do not purport to be "objective" accounts of Life in a classroom. I am deeply implicated within this work for that is my responsibility as a teacher. I know that I 23

&ect/effect the lives of the chiIdren in my classroom. To have proceeded with this inquiry under the pretense that it would make no difference in my practice with children would have been morally reprehensible. To view the children in my cIassroom as

"participants within the study" rather than the eight year olds with whom I shared a school year of laughter and tears of anger, joy, frustration, sorrow and a myriad of other emotions, would have been abdication of my responsibility to them as their teacher. The children were not 'participants within the study", they were my students. It was my responsibility to care for them and to take care of them. Care gives these accounts a deeply personal tone.

The accounts are dnwn from varied sources: field notes and journal entries which attempted to closely describe the events of the classroom during the school year

1998/1999, transcripts of taped interviews with the parents of some of the children during this same period, conversations with friends and colleagues, and personal reflections of all of the preceding. Throughout the inquiry, I turned to the work of authors as re-sources who aided my attempts to understand and interpret the happenings around the question:

What is the experience of aesthetic consciousness in an elementary classroom?

This work is less about truths than presences. It does not purport to be a tempIate nor a blueprint for aesthetic education. It is a set of incidences which dudeto the experience of aesthetic consciousness - an dolding of aesthetic space in a grade three classroom. It

25

Hermeneutic phenomenology invites me to write the "something that is experienced" in a classroom as a response to a question. It allows me a space of wondering how/why things have come to be and howlwhy they might be different. Hermeneutics allows me to hear the experience of being in a classroom resonate with echoes of the past and the future.

The physics of sound tells us that there are few "pure" musical sounds. Instead, the timbre or quality of a certain sound is dependent upon the resonance or harmonic overtones which are set into play. Thus, a key struck on a piano will cause other strings to vibrate in sympathy. Similarly a pedal tone on a pipe organ will literally cause an entire cathedral and those in it to vibrate. Hermeneutics allows me to call forth the resonances, sympathetic vibrations and overtones of a classroom. It invites me to write the classroom as a re-membered place. Hermeneutics calls forth that which is hidden, but in its revealing, unveils only another question.

Hermeneutic phenomenology makes no claims of specific ownenhip. In the way that The

Goldberg Vc~riutionsdo not necessarily belong to Bach, Glenn Gould or Goldberg, this work does not belong to met the children in my class, or the university I am a student of.

As an interpretive work, it attempts to recover an "otherness". It seeks an audience in the same way that music seeks an audience. Both seek audiences that do more than observe.

They seek audiences that interpret, who participate in the work in such a way that they both make and are made by the work (Gadamer, 1975,102: Schafer, I977,6). These accounts of classroom Iife are as much about how/what/when the chitdren in my class taught me about aesthetics as they are about us teaching/learning aesthetically. It is my hope that the accounts open a space of understanding everyday aesthetics in the classroom.

Hermeneutic phenomenology is more than a methodology. Hermeneutic phenomenology is a way of being and becoming. It is a philosophy of life. It is our ever changing understanding of the world, our evolving ways of reading the world to gain personal meaning. In Researching Lived Experience, van Manen (1990) explains that,

... to do research is always to question the way we experience the world, to want to know the world in which we live as human beings. And since to know the world is profoundly to be in the world in a certain way, the act of researching - questioning - theorizing is the intentional act of attaching ourselves to the world, to become more fully a part of it. or better, to become the world. (p. 5)

Thus, interpretive inquiry is not a method employed to examine certain experiential data after the fact. In this project, it was more about proceeding with pedagogical sensitivity and care (van Manen, 1988; Wilde, 1996; Heidegger, 1962), hearing listening (Fiumara,

1990; Jardine, 1994; Levin, 1989; Schafer. 1977), revisioning conceptions of seeing

(Eisner, 1993; Levin, 1988), opening understandings of lived body, lived space, lived time and relationship (Abram, L 994; lagodzinski. 1992; Levin, 1988; Levin 1989:

Merleau-Ponty, 1962) and exploring notions of subjectivity (Charmaz, 1996; Ktieger.

1985; Merleau-Ponty, 1962; Richardson, 1993).

This interpretive piece is multi-vocal. The voices include the children of my classroom

1998-1999, their parents, my colleagues, and the voices of authors who spoke to me 27

throughout this project. The names of all participants have been changed to ensure

confidentiality. My voice is present throughout, both in the sense of what I have written

and spoken throughout the year, and in what I have chosen to include or leave in silence.

My voice is not intended to dominate. This is not the work of a soloist but that of a chamber musician.

I implore you to listen with the ears and body of a musician. Enter into this work in the

way that you enter a piece of music. Enter with silence, with preparedness to hear.

The essence of sound is felt in both motion and silence, it passes fiom existent to nonexistent. When there is no sound, it is said that there is no hearing, but that does not mean that hearing has lost its preparedness. Indeed, when there is no sound, hearing is most alert, and when there is sound the hearing nature is least developed. (Singh in Schafer, 1977.259)

Let the silence and the sound wash over you, lose yourself in the temporality of the piece.

Later, reflect, but do this with the memory of the embodied experience. Listen to the inner voices. Feel them resonate and vibrate. Listen for overtones that speak of the ineffable and the unspeakable. Listen for harmony, dissonance, and resolution. Listen for pedal tones, foundational notes, key notes that locate in particular ways. Feel the rhythms and the intricate dances and textures of the dassroom. See with eyes that embrace rather than hold in abeyance. Remember that the eyes are organs that cry (Levin, 1988).

Enter not with your mind, but with your heart and your spirit (Palmer, 1998). Variation 5

Thunder Hill1%September 2,1998

The school year has begun and it is our third day together. Our classroom space is in a free standing portable. Our only way of getting to the main building and back is to step outside, down several steps then onto the tarmac of the playground. The classroom is a world away fiom the main building. This appeals to me, yet I wonder how we will cope with the icy north winds that are sure to blow through the long prairie winter.

I have tried to create a physical space that signifies a place different from the classrooms in the main building. I have hung dried flowers from the rafters and set out jars of dried peas and beans. There are special curio display cabinets where I have set out seashells and rocks and I have ananged baskets of pine cones and other items From nature dIly around the space. To block the afternoon sun and the traces of dried rotten eggs on the windows, I have covered the windows with diaphanous purple fabric. In keeping with the purple theme, dl bulletin boards have been covered with textured purple paper bordered by blue. My husband and children have painted the doom and cabinets to match. My fiend Yvonne calls my classroom the "The Purple Zen Room". The decor is a blend of

Reggio Emilia" and any number of Italian restaurants.

'" Thunder HiIl is a large natural area which borders the school property.

The preschools of Reggio Emilia emphasize that the environment is also a teacher. Hence, the classrooms utilize objects found in nature lather than teacher made or mass produced teaching materials (Edwards et aI, 1996; Hendrick, 1997). 29

The children and I have just left the coolness of the air conditioned building and step out into the thirty degree ternperatme. We are headed for the portable, our classroom, our space. But purple Zen or not, there is no denying that today it is hot in the room. We have both doors open but the sun streams through the windows and the temperature has soared in the late afternoon sun. As we enter the classroom we are struck both by a faintly musty smell that I have been unsuccessful in eradicating and by a wall of heat.

The children head for their water bottles and Craig dances around the room chanting "hot, hot, hot!". The children noisily gulp down their water, some of the boys even try to spray their heads but I intervene. I have visions of things getting quickly out of hand.

My long skirt is sticking to my legs and the faces of the children are red and damp. Heat emanates from their bare arms and legs. It would be useless to attempt a math lesson at this time.

On the first day of school when we were still nervous strangers, I had read the story ''A

Morning ro Polish and Keep " (Lawson, 1992). I had told the children that I hoped that grade three would be a year that they could polish and keep. Some of them were quite puzzled by the statement while others seemed to take up the idea. I didn't pursue this much the first morning because my primary intent was to allow the children a chance to get used to my voice, to allay their fears and to let them establish a sense of place in relation to the rest of the school. A metaphor seemed too much to introduce. 30

However, on this hot sticky afternoon I taIk about ways to hold onto things. We talk about how drawing can do this. I ask if they would like to explore Thunder Hill, the hill behind our classroom, then draw something that they couid find with their new ways of seeing.

There is a bun of assent. Many heads nod and there is general excitement. We all need to get to a place where we can breathe.

At first many of the children just run from one thing to another. They are so taken by the novelty of being outside during school hours that 1 think they feel that they have to maximize their fieedom. A group of boys decides to go crashing down the other side of the hill at break neck speed. Someone shouts that he has something to show the others.

Fiona is nervous about walking down in her sandals so I hold her hand and she gingerly picks her way over to a clearing where she €ids a tree stump to sketch. Most of the children don't take the time to slow down and examine until I stop and start pointing things out to them. Afler awhile I notice that everyone has found a special spot and started to sketch. Well not everyone. Jack and Craig have lost their pencils in the dash through the woods. I hope that the pencils are biodegradable. I lend mine to Jack and Joe lends his to Craig.

I wander back up. Some of the girls have found a nest and decided to sketch it. One of them asks if we can have it back in our classroom for a while. Images of bugs and worms creeping out in the night and infesting every part of the classroom haunt me. But I overcome this with common sense. If there is anything that is a biohazard about this it's 3 f

probably already too late and besides, I think there is probably more of a biohazard

emanating from the corner of the classroom that has the musty smell.

They hold the nest like a sacred object all the way back.

The next day we examine the nest. I ask the children to look closely at it, to find

something that they have not known about a nest until they held this nest in their hands.

Each child quietly holds it as it is handed to them, then offers a comment. I scribe the comments on chart paper and we are amazed at what one can say about a nest when time and care is taken to examine it closely.

The nest still sits prominently in the classroom with the chart which follows above it.

Every now and again, when a child describes an object as ''it3 only a !". another child will offer back to him, "But remember the nest!" Variation 6 Twenty-three things that we noticed about a bird's nest that was found on Thunder Hill

1. It has mud 2. It smells like a bird 3. It has twigs 4. It has grass 5. It has a piece of string 6. It has leaves 7. There are some gaps 8. It's not round 9. It's stuck together with mud 10.1thas a hole in the bottom 11.It's brownish and greyish 12. It' s camouflaged 13. It's hard, but if you press it, it will squish 14. It's sturdy but not built to last a really long time 15. It's sort of coming apart 16. It feels hard and old 17. The sides are broken 18. It looks like a Robin's nest 19. It's packed down 20. Twigs stick out 22. The twigs are criss-crossed 23. It looks really, really, really messy-like a rat's nest! Variation 7

A Grade Group Meeting: September 1998

I am fieezing. I am underdressed for the main building where the air conditioning blasts out cold processed air. I have forgotten to wear a sweater, an extra layer of protective clothing from the elements inside.

I am in a grade group meeting with the other grade three teachers. We are discussing how we will proceed with the upcoming report cards. Our task is to come to an agreement of what the various codes and numbers on the report card will stand for. One of my colleagues is impatient. She wants us to create clearly defined rubrics for language learning. The other teachers think that this is a great idea. I'm not sure how I feel. 1have a hard time marking from rubrics. How does one decide that one poem is a "3" while another a "Y?My favorite interpretation of The Goldberg Variations is Glenn Gould's

1982 recording. Does this mean that his earlier recording should score lower on an appreciation rubric?

Someone else mentions that what we really should do is a diagnostic test on ail of the children in our classes. That way we'll know if they're at grade level or not.

I find myselfsiIentIy voicing dissent. Does knowing the test score of each chiid make a profound difference in the way that one proceeds with children? Does a test score help a 35 child read? What ifa child does not meet the criteria of reading at grade level, what then? However, dl of my team partners agree that testing is a good plan of action. It will help in our assessment of the children.

I wonder how confirmation that a child is below grade level can "help" that child.

Binders are produced and two of the teachers pull out different kinds of diagnostic tests that I haven't even heard about iet alone used! Someone mentions that these are her own personal copies that she got from the university bookstore. I feel my confidence begin to drain out of me. My interpretive inquiry into the ineffable and unspeakable moments in a classroom seems flighty against the authority of ail the raw scores, percentages. means. modes, standards of deviation and other numbers on the pages before me. The possibility that I might be totally misguided looms before me. Why have I been reading Gadarner,

Merleau-Ponty, and Doll? Perhaps, 1 should have taken that statistics course.

As each new testing instrument is brought forth, it is as though the heavy weight of

"Accountability" pushes against my chest. I am finding it difficult to breathe. Luckily the bell rings for supe~sionand we disperse. I leave for the sanctuary of my own classroom.

But "Accountability" hangs heavily over me like a threatening cloud. Variation 8

Re-member-ing the Classroom: September 16,1998

The Purple Zen Room feels quite zen-like this morning. My classroom is serene in the

early morning sunlight. I love these quiet mornings after the bustle of seeing my family

off to school and work then driving through traffic to arrive at school. A cool breeze

wafts through the open ventilation windows, not enough to send papers flying but to offer

a hint that Autumn is in the air and these last warm days of summer are soon to be but a

memory of what was. A Mozart Piano

Concerto plays on my stereo.

My classroom is removed from the busyness of the main school building. Being in a

separate portable classroom space means that there are no delivery men pushing

squeaking carts through the halIways, no caretakers polishing the floors, no overheard

conversations in the halls as colleagues negotiate library times or discuss their weekends,

no burbling coffee pots, no rumbling of the copying machine or curses from colleagues when said machine fails to produce, no telephones ringing or doorbells buning. There is only Mozart.

The serenity is not so much shattered as it is first dissolved then erased. It begins with a faint awareness on the edge of my consciousness that chiIdren are arriving. The sounds of their play can be heard through the open windows. Then there is the thumping of balls 37 being bounced off the hard surfaces of the outside walls and the vibrating thuds of children making their way up the stairs of the portable so that they will be first in line when I open the door to greet them. The warning bell pierces the air. 1 am not used to it and it still causes me to jump when it goes off. It is there for my benefit, a harbinger of things to come. A marking of a new day.

When the bell sounds to mark the opening of school, I open the door to a cacophony of different greetings. There is an explosive energy as the children enter, each with his or her own aura. Jack enters with a sweet smile, Mark with a scowl, Bradley with a shy look to check me out, Craig with an explosion. Megan with a joke. Janelle with a hug and a dramatic telling, Meg with a tale of how she had to get her sister to ECS and eighteen other entrances and greetings.

I attempt to impose order on Craig's explosiveness while reminding myself that he is. after dl, on time. He and Wade are involved in some sort of wrestling match while Bob and Jack attempt to play football with someone's shoes. Meanwhile, Ali is handing me a permission slip which sparks the memories of other children and they clamor forth with bright pink strips of paper and worse yet. money.

Because of all of the noise and commotion, we totally miss the morning announcements on the PA system. I have no idea of what shoes the children need for gym or what I am supposed to do with the pink slips and money. I call them to the open area to start the day. 38

AAer a long wait of patiently waiting for the group to settle, I begin my admonishment of the kind of behavior which caused all of us to miss the announcements. As I enter into my diatribe the fi-ont door opens and Fiona and her father slip in. I groan to myself. Why is it that a parent always walks in when I am doing something so decidedly uncreative and so decidedly teacher-like. Why can't parents enter when we are having a wonderfbl discussion or when the children are involved in some sort of activity that totally engages them?

However, he is discreet in his entrance and quietly mouths an apology and slips out.

Fiona approaches me quietly when a second set of announcements comes over the PA system.

As the announcements are replayed, she quietly whispers to me. She has brought a baby frog to school in a jar. She found it while fishing in Neison and she is excited and quite adult like in her quiet eagerness to share her discovery with the class. She is also very patient and places the jar which contains the frog safely on her desk, shaded from the scrutiny of the children by a tea towel. She waits patiently while we go through various routines then a discussion about a poem, Who am I? (Holman, 1970) which 1 have charted.

We tall< about the poem. It is an amazing conversation. There is a hint of a speiI over the class. When I reread it, I ask the chiidren what they think it means when the poet says: The wind tells me, At nighdall, And the rain tells me Someone small

Someone smalI, Someone small But a piece of it all.

Janelle slowly puts up her hand, "Well, it's like maybe that my mother is my mom but she has a mom too and that's my grandma, and my grandmother has a mom and she had a mom and so ... we're all someone small because we all have a mom."

This is an amazing thought. It is a wondrous thing to be eight years old (well almost eight). I am caught in the moment and have forgotten about quiet Fiona and her fiog. She shifts nervously and looks uncomfortable. I wonder if she needs to go to the bathroom.

Then she whispers to me, "I'm afkid that he'll die!".

I'm still caught up with Janelfe and I don't understand Fiona.

"If he doesn't get some fresh air, I'm afraid that he 'II die!"

Omigawd! I have forgotten about the fiog. What if it's dead! I tell her to go get him. She retrieves him and, of course, the other children are alerted to the change. They watch as 40

Fiona reverently retrieves the jar with fiog and slowly pulls away the tea towels that have covered it. The children strain to get closer to Fiona and the fiog and there are complaints fiom one to another as they jostle for the best position. Fiona stands quietly before them and waits for silence.

Fiona tells us how she had found the frog in a lake. She explains to us what other life there is in the quiet waters and how you have to be very still and quiet to see. Her eyes dance with the recollection of how funny it was to see the spinners on the water and her whole body becomes animated as she describes their strange dance to us. She is transformed from the quiet waiGlike figure which she usually presents herself as. Her dark eyes sparkle and dance and she giggles as she tells us in detail of the process of catching the frog, how her sister tried and failed and how she and her father made the decision that perhaps the frog could be removed fiom his place so that we might learn from him. Her plan is to return him to the wilds after school. The frog is on a field trip, so to speak. We decide as a class that the safest place for the fiog is on her desk.

As we break back from the group to desks there is the same cacophony of sound that began the morning. Chairs squeak, desks scrape against the floor, children chase after one another to ask if they can borrow crayons or erasers or pencils or to squeeze in one last conversation in covert tones. Craig is aIready headed for the pencil sharpener. I should actually be pleased that he has successllly located a pencil. Tom resists the activity and hangs around Jeremy's desk. 41

There is a growing crowd around Fiona's desk but because a child has stopped to ask me for clarification about the task, I am unaware of it. Fiona is suddenly at my side in a very uncharacteristic stance. She clutches the jar with the frog to her chest and tells me that she needs to speak to the class. The force with which she says this compels us to listen to her authority.

She is distraught and announces to the class, "Don't you see that you're scaring him! He's been taken from his habitat and transferred many times and he's scared! WHEN YOU

CROWD AROUND MY DESK IT'S NOT FAR TO HIM! HE NEEDS SOME SPACE.

HE NEEDS SOME SPACE TO GET USED TO BEING HERE."

The children are stunned by the emotion with which she speaks. They stare at her with a realization that she is right. It is not often that such words are delivered on behalf of someone/thing else. It is another wondrous moment.

The frog is placed on my desk for safe keeping. Variation 9

The Frog

The following poem was created by Fiona af'ter the frog was placed on my desk for safe keeping. Fiona offered it to me, the words messily scrawled on a sheet smudged with black pencil erasures, the edges of the page tattered and dog-eared where she had absent-mindedly curled them while thinking of what to write. The poem did not scan the way it now appears nor was the spelling correct Indeed, when she first showed me the poem, I had to ask Fiona to read it aloud as I feared that I would incorrectly interpret her invented spelling.

With Fiona's permission, I charted the poem for the class and we talked of how poetry needs white space on the page so that one can savor each word. The children played with the length of each line and we discussed how the visual appearance of the words were as important as the words themselves. We also talked of how poetry does not need to rhyme and how, unlike non-poetic forms, poems do not need to follow conventions like punctuation or capitalization. The children were mindful that the poem was Fiona7s creation and always left the fmal say about how the poem would scan up to her.

The ongoing conversation prompted by Fiooa's poem proved to be very significant as poetry became a form that many of the children, especially Fiona, were drawn to. The Frog

I had caught something special So special Very very small As he sits in my Hands and looks around Wondering where he is He is small and scared I know how it feels To be there

A frog

My friend

by Fiona (September 1998) Variation 10

Diagnostic Reading Form Beginning Grade Three Reading Comprehension

I am giving a diagnostic reading test because everyone else is and not to would make me vulnerable to charges of being uncooperative and unprofessional. I yeam for the confidence that other teachers seem to have, their authoritative stance when they intone.

"Your child is reading at an early grade four level!" or "Your child is not yet reading at a grade three level." The problem is, I don't know what to say next. Perhaps 1 should say what I used to say, back in the days when I never considered that my own son would be a reluctant reader, "Your child would benefit from a regular schedule of home reading." As if forcing a child to do something both he and his parents hate is beneficial.

I know that some kids are on the verge of a breakthrough and that they will be fine by the end of grade three. With other kids, it seems as though the more fuss is made about them, particularly if their parents are anxious, the more they will resist. Sometimes they even refuse to read anything with the thought that it's better not to read by choice than to try and then be exposed as a nonreader.

But the weight of accountability and consistency between the grade three teachers hangs over me and so here we are. We have arranged the room in test formation Desks are separated and spread in such a way that no wande~geyes can catch a glimpse of someone else's thinking. There is military precision to the straight rows that contrasts to 45 our usual grouping and clustering of desks. Fresh pencils are distributed and I make sure that everyone has an eraser. The children seem familiar with the routine. When I ask them about it, they speak indignantly in tones that reassure me that of course they know the routine - they've done this many times before! I fmd this unsettling. They are only in grade three.

It is so quiet in the room. The children have never been so quiet. The silence speaks seductively to me that this way would be so easy. Ifonly I could do this all the time. I circulate around the room but even Craig is at his desk. Someone has trained him to stay in one place when these are being written! I wonder how they did it.

A few of the children finish early and turn confidently to the reading books that are on their desks. Jeremy and Mark draw but neither of them have rushed through so that they have extra drawing time. Somehow they know that they aren't to do that.

Craig has read through the selection then quickly goes back and forth between reading selection and answer sheet, eyes darting from this paper to that paper to me to the door and around the room before returning to the page where he scribbles a few words on the line. Then he repeats the process. When he finishes he lets out a huge sigh then stands to head for the pencil sharpener. It doesn't matter that he is done with his pencil and that it isn't dull, he heads for it anyway. I don't even have to say anything. I only need to look at him, point to his seat and he meekly shrinks back into it dl the while griming as though 46 to say he just wanted to check up on me. He sits, vibrating at his desk, pulls open his drawer then doses it, then opens and closes it again, feet constantly tapping out a faint tattoo against the carpet, fingers drumming against his desk. He stares out the window as the sunshine and playing field beckon to him.

Fiona sits hunched over her desk. She licks her Lips nervously and tries to shield her paper from the other children. She nervously runs her figea through the tendrils of hair that have escaped her ponytail. She gnaws at the end of her pencil, writes something down and stares at her page. A few seconds later she reaches for her eraser and fkiously rubs until dark grey streaks threaten to disintegrate the page. Then she stares again at the page, wrapping her hair around the end of her pencil.

When the bell rings for recess, some of the children explode out of their chairs. Wade pirouettes happily around, practicing Ninja kicks. Jeremy stands, but he is still drawing and cannot stand to leave his sketch even though the rest of his body wills him to the coatroom. He leans over his desk, bum in the air. feet inching back but hand still attached to his page until with a find wrench his body pulls away from the desk Flinging his pencil down he springs for the door. Both Fiona and Emma remain at their desks, checking over to see that they have filled in everything.

Later, I mark Fiona's paper. On question four she writes, 4. Why didn't Mrs. Bear sense any danger?

Miz Parker this was to hrd to rii I warent very redey! I didentfiesh very mutch dut Ifinesd the reading!

When I score the tests I find that I am able to say with authority that according to this instnunent Fiona is not yet reading at an early grade three level. Variation I I

Fugue: "It was a dsrk and stormy night..."

Sometimes I wonder if I do damage when I am teaching. My advisor and I discuss this

idea, not in reference to my practice but in reference to our own children. We talk of how despite our talk of teaching for hope and possibility, our wish for our children is only that they have teachers who don't damage them. He says, "Leave the question of whether they'll go to university to us (the parents), let us wony about whether they'll be successful. Just ... just don't do damage."

His comment has a ring of familiarity to it. I think back to a conversation with a friend. It was when we were both much younger. She was a young mother. over flowing with talk of diapers. toilet training, first steps, and sleep or the lack thereof. I was an experienced teacher. After all, I had taught for four years. I had survived four years of teaching grade eight. Surely this counted for something?

Her talk tums toward her older child, a girl entering grade two. We joke about how

September causes depression and anxiety in me but elation in her as her children return to school and her days return to her. Then her face turns serious. "You know," she says, "I always worry, too. I worry about who they'll have as teachers. I just want someone who won't do damage..." 49

Years later, 'damage' revisits during a conversation with my sister. We are talking about our children and mathematics. In particular, we worry if our eldest children will be able to cope with Math 10. Both of us have children who are bright and capable but who feel dull and incapable when it comes to mathematics. We think back to their encounters with timed math facts quizzes in their early elementary school years and suspect that it was during these that both children began to feel a lack of aptitude for numbers. Both of us struggled with our children, calling out math facts in the car enroute to music lessons, over bre&ast, and during television commercials. We were tom between doing what we felt was the expectation of the teacher and doing what we felt was right for our children. I had less persistence than her and gave up early. I told my son that math facts weren't really mathematics but that it would not be a good idea to say this to his teacher. My sister continued and her daughter did reasonably well on the timed tests. However. regardless of whether we worked on mastery or not, both children dislike math now.

Neither feels competent. It is a subject to be endured so that they can graduate.

We talk about whether we did damage with our respective strategies. She says, "But the thing is, once a kid doesn't like something in school, there already is damage. Once they hate doing something whether it's math facts or writing or reading or singing, the damage is done."

During my sabbatical year, I became aware of Cartesianism. Up until that time I had known Descartes words in the way one might know the answer to a trivia question but 50 naively, I had not considered that his words had anything to do with me. This navete was quickly shattered. In course after course it became increasingly clear to me that

Cartesianisrn was more than a philosophical construct. Cartesianism located me in particular ways and it was pervasive. Its separation of thinking mind or subject over bodily experiencing allowed for the privileging of a particular kind of existence.

Ensconced in its subjectivity, the all powefil "I" located all else as a standing reserve for its own purposes - consumable and expendable. I began to see examples of the privileging of mind over body in the curriculum where math, especially pure math was valued over physical education and in writing, where expository writing was valued over narrative. I began to understand that the Olympic ideals of higher, stronger, faster were applied to far more than athletic pursuits. they were reflective of the desire to ever improve the mind itself. The ideals were, of course, measurable and expressed numerically.

The priviIeging of the "I" also allowed for the privileging of the -'eyey'. In one course after another, it became increasingly clear that Cartesian thought allows our sense of sight to locate us in a certain way. It allows us the privilege of being a subject whose gaze holds the power to view all within its field of vision as object. I recall reading David Abram's

(1996), The Spell of the Sensuous for the first time and being appalled at how far removed we have become fiom the animate world. I was fascinated by discussions of subjectivity and situated knowledge (Haraway, 1988; Krieger, 1985; Pile and EA,1995). I became lost in discussions of hermeneutics and phenomenology, struggIed to glean meaning fiom 5 1 the writing of Gadamer (1960), Merleau-Ponty (1962), and Heidegger (1 927). I wrote

about these readings and attempted to make sense of them. I tried to understand what they might mean for my practice. But it wasn't until I thought about Fiona that I understood what all of the aforementioned authors might have to say in my classroom.

Fiona's performance on a diagnostic reading test is tangible evidence of how we have

located sense making in reading and writing in particular ways. In that particularity.

Fiona has been excluded. How is it that she, who is so attuned to her senses can be said to have difficulty making sense of the text before her? I wonder if the problem is not with

Fiona but in the way that we interpret what counts as text. Perhaps our notions of text should be more expansive. Perhaps we have to resist the pull of Cartesian thought and its desire to locate leamingfteaching in binary codes of right or wrong answers assigned a numerical value. Poems open spaces of questioning that do not have clearly reasoned answers. Cartesianism decided that a diagnostic reading test holds more authority than a poem. Cartesiamosmdecided that a test score represents Fiona as a learner with more authority than Fiona's poem. Cartesianism decided long ago that Fiona should be represented as a number, placed within a rank ordering of grade three children.

But what is uncovered by Fiona's poem? What might it speak of! Why is it important to see Fiona as a poet and not a non reader? 52

In The SpeN of the Semous, David Abram (1996) holds that the phonetic nature of our alphabet has caused a rifi between the words on the page and the sensuous qualities of the world. He believes that written characters in a language such as Chinese maintain the character of a pictorial symbol, a depiction of what it is the word stands for. Hence, the text carries in it a "more-than-human field of phenomena" (p. 10 1).

Abram believes that the development of a phonetic alphabet removed the

"more-than-human" character of text. Text became less textured, less a(e)ffective.

Instead of being re-presentations of a more-than-human world, text became phonetic soundings of isolated human utterances. These unerances contained littie meaning in and of themselves, it was only when they were strung together with other utterances that they formed words. Abram argues that the meaning gleaned from recognizing a set of phonetic utterances is vastly different from the meaning gleaned from a pictorial symbol.

In the shift to a phonetic base, text lost some of its texture. The things themselves no longer lived in the characters for each character was a pure sound, incapable of meaning unless combined with other characters. With the loss of the "more-than-hwnan field of phenomena", iconic text becomes less historical. The senseability of the characters is lost when they no longer refer to a place or a time.

For scribed text allows for a different sense of temporality than oral tellings. Scribed text has a permanent character to it, it can outlive the one who first scribed its words. The permanence of the written word meant that the oral storyteller became redundant. It became more important to read and write well than to listen. Abram explains that

"learning to read and write thoroughly disabled the oral poet, ruining his capacity for oral

improvisatioa" @. 107). Abram believes that this loss of orality, the loss of legends and myth, have caused us to become estranged from the animate earth or "flesh". We lack connectedness. We are caught in the vacuum of our unstoried, untextured existence.

... these stories affirm human kinship with the multiple forms of the surrounding terrain. They thus indicate the respectfbl. mutuai relations that must be maintained with natural phenomena, the reciprocity that must be practiced in relation to other animals, plants, and the land itself, in order to ensure one's own health and to preserve the well-being of the human community. (Abram, 1996, 12 1 .)

The written word locates hearing in the ability to read its phonetic utterances and find meaning. Listening locates hearing in the breathable space of air, a living, textured place.

To turn this into a contest between oral tellings and the written word is a diversionary tactic. Instead, the question is how do we return texture to texts that have deliberately shed their textudity? How do we begin to view texts as inheritances? How do we breathe air, life, into a number, a statistical analysis, a diagnostic reading test?

Fiona wrote, "I know how it feels to be there. A fiog. My friend." Her words reflect

Abram's idea of "respectll, mutual relations maintained with natural phenomena"

@.121), a deep understanding, perhaps exceptional in an eight year old. Yet, on 54 diagnostic tests she scores below grade level in reading and writing. Her cumulative Ne, thick with computerized printouts and codes of her performance on standardized tests will record and chart her learning for the next nine years of her life. It has no place for her poem. An eight year old girl and her affity for a frog cannot stand up to the weight of hundreds of years of reading and writing texts in particular ways. It is hard to be heard if one is out of the range of hearing. It is hard to speak in a vacuum.

We are caught. The frog, Fiona and I are all caught. We struggle to breathe, to find a place with air.

And so sometimes I lie awake at night. The house is dark and still save the ticking of a single clock that grounds my consciousness. At these times I feel myself slip into a place where only sleep can save me.

I ask myself, "Do I do damage?" Variation 12

Re-Membering the Classroom: September 21,1998

We have not been working well together. Things go in fits and starts. Just when I think we are developing a sense of community,things start to fall apart. 1 feel s sense of he floating anxiety and I wonder if anything is really happening.

I feel so scattered! Our time keeps getting intempted by false intrusions into our learning. Just when I feel that we are on the edge of developing something ,it is time to move to something else. We have been doing "research centres" in the library. I was talked into this against my better judgment and also by a modernist desire to base my teaching on something tangible. The librarian had a series of task centres that she said had been quite successful in the past. I was tom between wondering if the activities were an example of project based teaching and the desire to form a professional connection and relationship with a colleague. Now that we are into it. I redly question if the library centers that we are doing a.Wering a spirit of inquiry or removing us From a spirit of inquiry. The imny of the situation is that the centers are supposed to help us with our research. Instead, they feel like a very contrived exercise in which we are merely putting in time.

In the past, when cmfbI planning did not result in the wondefily creative products of learning that I had hoped for, I had a tendency to bIame the children. They weren't 56

"ready" for this kind of responsibility, or they weren't "motivated" to learn, or perhaps my kind of teaching was better suited to another neighborhood where the children were more appreciative of my teaching talents. I spent hours designing clever lessons that would ensure every concept would be taught. [f the children did not understand, it could not be because of any fault with my teaching. The weakness had to reside with them, or perhaps their parents. Maybe the parents had failed to provide a safe environment so that the child could learn.

My teaching was driven by the question: How would 1 teach the curriculum? An underlying subtext to this query was: How would I keep the children busy? In my quest to become an ever better teacher, I would turn to cuniculum guides with suggestions and better yet, black line masters of worksheets which I could reproduce for the length of the entire unit. I would consult other teachers to find out what they did. I would turn to ready made teaching kits that guaranteed my students would learn. Many of these kits included testing instruments and checklists which I would dutillly fill out so that I could measure whether the children had successfully completed the requirements of the unit. I welcomed opportunities to stay current with the latest in teaching techniques and attended workshops and inservices in the hopes that someone else could show me how to teach the subject better. I even became a graduate student in the hope that academics could fbrther teach me how to teach. 57

A fallacy underscored my thinking. I believed that careNly crafted teaching could ensure leaming. But the dificulty of teaching isn't teaching. The difficulty of teaching is learning. When leaming becomes the focus of the classroom, there is a significant shift to how one can morally engage in many of the practices listed above. A shift to learning means that I have to know the children in a different way. Rather than focusing on what a child is unable to do, their deficits that I am expected to address in evaluative reports. I need to look for spaces of learning. Unfortunately, there is no guidebook or method that can teach me how to do this. This isn't about a method, it's more a philosophy about how one is with children.

I resist the urge to create library centres that will keep the children busier. I stop myself fiom running to the photocopier. Instead, I reread Jagodzinski:

Putting one's consciousness "on the line," walking on the edge or on a tightrope, is the aesthetic experience that animates us.... In onvenation, it is only through the question that a 'way" may be created, the journey activated, an intentional arc bridged with the Other.... To be heard means to have firsed with the horizon of the Other.

For teachers the voice should maintain the oral tradition of leaden, peacemakers, prophets, and visionaries. Their voice should lead us out to dialogue. Since all conversation journeys start fiom a point, the teacher must make a moral choice as to which line is taken. (Jagodzinski, 1992, 161-162.)

Jagodzinski gives sage words of advice. In the past, my voice has all too often lead my students to a place where the find word is given. 1 dways valued discussion, but saw my 58 role as a teacher as one who would lead the discussion to a certain conclusion. I always knew where I wanted the discussion to end, so it was, in fact, not a conversation.

Jagodzinski's words remind me that an aesthetic space should not be a space of hard edges and predetermined boundaries. It should not be a place where words confine us to a certain way of thinking. Words should lead us to conversation. a dialogue which opens rather than limits possibilities. Questions, and the ensuing dialogue should lead us to a space of the unknown, a space beyond that of curriculum guides and specific concepts. I find myself wondering if dialogue can lead us, a group of eight year olds and their teacher, to a space where we can explore the ancestries of how various curricula have come into existence,

I make a "moral choice" (Jagodzinski. 1992, 162). I choose to member the class with children rather than curricular concepts. I ask the children, "What is important in our classroom? What do we want in our classroom?"

Michelle is always eager to speak to the group. She enjoys the captive audience that goes with being sanctioned to speak by the teacher. However, today her words are more revealing than usual. They are more in the spirit of true sharing of her innermost feelings than an account of her privileged Life and experiences. She says that in school she wants to learn and to have fun with the other kids in the cIass. Then both her tone and the intensity of listening changes as she says, "It's important that no one hurts me." We all are a bit taken aback by this turn, this reference to personal damage. 59

"Last year, in my class, there were these kids that used to push me around at recess and in the coatroom. And they used to kick me and call me names and they made me feel really bad. I didn't even want to come to school." Several of the children nod in agreement. It becomes a bit clearer to me why there is a "Bully proofing" program in the school. We explore this hrther and tak about what makes a place safe. This leads to some talk about whether safety is just a physical issue.

But then we get diverted in a very interesting way. Bradley holds up his hand. He has never volunteered anything before. He is a child that I hardly know but I would like to know him better. He draws highly intricate pictures that sometimes reveal a very quirky sense of humor. He also avoids eye contact unless I kneel very low beside his desk so that

I am actually looking up at him rather than down. I have a sense that nothing gets by him and that he is not a child who can be bought with the "teacher tricks" that work with some of the other children. There will be no "doing this to please the teacher" with Bradley.

He speaks to us in a quiet drawn out voice that we can barely hear. His eyes are on the carpet as he says to the group, ''I really need to have drawing time because that's what

I'm good at and that's how 1 learn. That's what I need in this class." Heads nod dl around him. I feel instantly guilty. I must not be giving them enough time to draw. 60

I say, "WeU you know that's what I find really hard when I'm teaching. I never know if I talk too much or not enough, if we sit on the carpet too long or not enough. Should we do more math or Iess? Should we draw or shouldn't we draw?"

The children look at me with wide eyes. Teachers are supposed to know these sorts of things. These decisions should be easy for adults to make. Then Becky, quiet Becky who hardly ever speaks to the whole group says, "We'll tell you." Heads nod all around and a chorus develops, "Yeah, we'll tell you!"

We all laugh at the novelty of the situation, but I think that we have found a grain of something important here. Learning has more to do with the teacher listening than the teacher telling. Variation IS

Tarantella16: The Field Trip from Hell

We are on Nose Hill". It is a scramble to get out there. One of the parent drivers cancels on me but another kindly steps in to drive at the last moment. God bless her. This is my first field trip with the class and I want it to go well. I have many planned for the year, including a week long pilot project at the Arts Centre. I have prepared a booklet for the children, a field journal to record their observations. I have also typed a short guide for the volunteers who will accompany us so that they can help the children observe and wonder about various phenomena in the park. I want the children to be immersed in the sensory experience of being on the prairie. I am hoping that the experience will let them imagine a different time away from the city as we know it. I want them to feel a glimmer of the remoteness of the prairie as well as the vastness of their natural surroundings. In my heart of hearts I am hoping that a sense of the spirituai will be present.

When we finally leave the school, 1 realize that the clipboards and field journals are still sitting on the back table of the room so I quickiy make an illegal turn in my van, park on the compound and run back to the classroom to grab them. In the brief moment that I am gone Craig hops out of the van and demands a bandage. He says he has scratched himself

A musical term meaning a vivacious Italian dance in 618 meter. It was thought that the fienetic activity of the dance wodd counteract the effects of a poisonous tarantula bite.

"Nose Hill Park is a iarge ( 1 127.5 hectare) natural prairie area that is surrounded by urban development. 62

and is bleeding. I tell him to wait until we get to the hill. The bandages are in my pack

and too hard to get at I'm sure he'll forget about his injury. On the way into the van, f

almost catch his fmgers in the door. This does not bode well.

Gabriela is complaining that there are bum in the back of my van and that she doesn't

want to sit there. I tell her that she'll have to put her seat belt on. If she had worn jeans or

long pants she would not have this problem. It is not as though she didn't know what

appropriate dress would be. I have been reminding her for several days, right up to and

including her departure at lunch dismissal, but she has stubbornly refised to take heed

and is now garbed for an afternoon on the prairie and coulees of Nose Hill Park in a frilly

dress and bare legs.

Jack sits beside me. This morning he worked redly hard on his story, but then he got very

silly for the last part of the morning. He was overtly defiant even when I said his chance

to join us on the afternoon hip depended upon his behavior. Then he got very sad and

quietly started to cry. When I talked to him privately, he said he didn't want to go because he missed his mom. He didn't get to see her much the night before. I asked him if he wanted to phone her. They had a conversation then he relayed to me that he was to stay

for lunch but his mom would pick him up before the field trip. I am surprised by this.

Moa children love field trips. If Jack doesn't join us, he will miss what I hope is a

bonding experience for the class. He needs to be with us. I make another call to his mother. Meanwhile, a couple of the other boys tell Jack that they want him to come. 63

Jack's mother tells me how unhappy he is to come to school. This confbses me for I have not seen any reluctance fkom Jack. He comes into the classroom with a smile and a greeting. According to the children, this is different fiom his previous years of schooling when he rehed to work in class. It has been a surprise to the other children that Jack is not only fun to be with. he writes interesting stories. The kids are very supportive of him.

I tell Jack's mom about his successes and about how the other kids have said they want him to come. I tell her that I think it is important for Jack to come on the field trip. I suggest that he have lunch then come back to the classroom and we'll take it from there.

She is reluctant. What kind of mom doesn't want her son to join in? What kind of mom thinks that she is helping by having him opt out of a part of normal school life? What is the message that is being portrayed?

By 2:00 in the afternoon, nestled in a hollow on Nose Hill Park. I'm wishing that Jack had stayed behind.

I have stopped with the group to read them Dakota Dugout (Turner, 1985), a story about homesteading on the prairies. We are sitting by the banks of a coulee. Other than a few moments when a child told us how Nose Hill got its name, an explanation that included the phrase "this woman was having sex with...", things haven't gone too badly. I decide to chance reading Dakota Dugout (Turner, 1985) aloud. It is a mistake. Some of the children Iisten politely to the story, but no one seems to have fallen into the story. I cannot portmy the quiet sense of the story and still be heard over the sound of the wind on the

prairie. A couple of the children inch their way behind me as I read. I ignore it. Parent

volunteers are watching as well as some student teachers from the university. I am conscious of a part of me that wants to interrupt the story, bring the children who aren't

listening back with talk of consequences and reprisals, and another part of me who desperately hopes that the spell of the place and the story will bring the children in.

As I am reading, Gabriela ventures down the banks. Several other children talk, oblivious to my voice or the story. Jack and Craig start to wrestle. They get sillier and sillier and refuse to comply. I feel growing frustration. How do I get out of this? Parents are watching, my adviser is watching, student teachers are watching. I don't express my anger, although at that moment I understand that there is a fine Iine that separates me

from using physical force. I quickly finish up the story then turn to have a quiet word with the boys. They laugh and giggle. I have a terrible feeling that I won't be able to get them back. They mock me and pull faces. I do not want to enter into a power struggle. What do

I do? I tell them that I know their mothers have not raised them to behave the way they are behaving. I ask them if they can be proud of their behavior. There is a flicker of something that might be control then they look at each other and giggle again. My only hope is to separate them. We start moving. There is, of course, another problem with one of them and I tum to the nearest adult who happens to be a student teacher and ask if she

wouldn't mind if' I make a switch. "Of course!" she says. Student teachers have endless 65

patience. They can tolerate the behavior of children like Craig more than I can. 1 have to

be responsible for the whole group.

We make the switch and continue on our way. At our next stop, we sketch. My group

settles into the activity, except for Gabriela. She yells at me that she can't draw. It

becomes increasingly clear to me that we must negotiate an acceptable volume of

communication soon if both of us are to have a working relationship. 1 cajole Gabriela

into attempting a sketch. Her yelling diminishes to a steady whine. Jack and Wade sit

quietly and sketch. I am even able to leave them to check on the other groups. One group

is being quite silly. The children are not pulling it together, even with the patience and

encouragement of their parent volunteer. The other groups seem to be fine. I wonder if

they are having an aesthetic experience. I'm not. However, there is a wonderful moment

when I see Jeremy and Fiona stretched out on their backs. They have finished drawing

and are taking time to look at the prairie sky and imagine. There aren't enough of these

kinds of moments.

During our journey back to the school, Gabriela howls, whines, and cries that Meg has called her a name and hurt her feelings. Meg is one of the gentlest souls in the class. She has great tolerance and I cannot imagine her saying anything that would purposely hurt another chiid's feelings. Further investigation reveds that Gabriela has scratched her knee and Meg, pragmatic as ever, said that it was ody a little scratch that wouldn't have happened if Gabriela had worn long pants. I tell Gabriela that I would have said the same 66 thing. Even as 1 say this I recognize that I am stooping to the behavior of an eight year old. Jack and Craig taunt Gabriela with silent looks and gestures. I tell Gabriela that the car will stop if she continues to yell. Listening to her is giving me a headache and distracting me from driving.

We arrive back at the school. XI had a moment to myself, I would cry. Even now as I type these words I can feel the hot tears starting behind my eyes. I am frustrated. angry, embarrassed and defeated. 1 feel like an incompetent naive martyr. How is it possible to find aesthetic experiences when I deal with arguments all day?

In the parking lot of the school, my advisor comes over. I feel like crawling under the van and hiding, but I put on a brave and cheerful face. I feel battered. He offers amazing words of encouragement. He says he had no idea. I don't think anyone has an idea. I want to wallow in self pity. I want to scream at the teachers who formulated my class list. I want them to try to teach this group of kids.

When I get back to the classroom, children are waiting for me to unlock the door. Amy ends up missing the bus. She phones home and I tell her that I will drive her. Meg is upset. Her mother has not arrived to pick her up fiom school. She phones home and her mother tells her to wait on the sidewalk and she will meet her there. Meg, who usually has a sweet smile for everyone, is quite teary so we dl wait on the sidewalk beside her.

Later, I realize that Meg's tears must be residuat effects fiom GabrieIa7sscreaming at her. 67

Sweet Meg's day ruined because of one other child. How many other kids did this happen to?

The next day I return to Nose Hill Park, but this time I am with my good fiend who is also a teacher. We are walking our dogs. As we approach different sites on the hill, I replay the full horror of the trip down to each minute detail. In turn. she relays to me her story of a field trip to the Arts Centre. Her bus arrived at the school late, they were subsequently caught in MIC,a child in her class was recovering from the flu and desperately needed to use the bathroom and the parking space for the bus was blocked by other vehicles, leaving only a small space where he could stop so that the children could disembark safely. The driver required her assistance as he could not see how much room there was behind the bus. She directed the bus driver but his idea of adequate space was quite different from her's and he backed into a late model BMW.

She acts out the parts of bus driver, BMW owner and herself, frantic grade three teacher, complete with accents, gestures, and curses. Her story ends with the damning words of the bus driver to the BMW owner, "WelI, she S the teacher and she said there was room!!" This was of course witnessed by her entire grade three class, parent volunteers and stafF of the Arts Centre who were concerned that they would be unable to admit her class to the scheduIed performance because of the delay.

We laugh as each of us tries to outdo the other with tales of field trip madness. We are like a coupIe of teenagers as we gesticulate wildly. Gales of laughter are tossed by the 68 prairie wind and we gasp in rollicking disbelief at the misfortune of the other's experiences.

"And we do these things even when we know we'll end up with a migraine by the end of the day!"

"What is it that makes us think that these experiences are worth it!"

"I'm tired of trying to think of beautifid experiences for the children!"

"I just want to be shut up in a classroom far away!"

"I want to be done!"

Our dogs begin to bark. We look around as they Leap hslntically about us. There are no coyotes in sight, no rabbits, no prairie chickens, not even any gophers. The dogs are reacting to the wildness in our voices. They are concerned for our safety and have come to our defense. They recognize the danger inherent in field trips! Variation 14

Resonance: Re-form-ing the Classroom

Hindsight is a wondecli teacher for it allow us to re-member the past Our physical eyes live in the present, what they see is the ever unfolding now. Our physical eyes do not see what was a moment ago, they have no memory. They do not see what is behind them.

There is only what lies before them, only one point of view, immediate and immanent perception.

Hindsight remembers the past with a richness greater than that of perception. Hindsight savors the sights, sounds, and flavors of life with a different kind of temporality. for hindsight is not bound by the ever unfolding present. With hindsight, fleeting glimpses of what might portend are brought to consciousness, expanded, and re-membered. Hindsight is an expansion of vision, a way of seeing that dwells in the possibility of what has been and what might be. It opens vision to an aurdord landscape imbued with meaning. It is often in hindsight that we learn.

When I first came to this work I approached learning and teaching fiom the standpoint that I wanted to give the children wonderfid experiences - aesthetic experiences.

Consequently I spent the first month of school in search of these types of experiences. I would think, "Ifonly I was slated to go to Performing Arts School earlier...", or "If only I 70

had the money to be able to hire a bus to take them to this place ..." or, "If only we could

do this, we would be able to have an aesthetic experience".

It was this desire that led me to the field trip to Nose Hill. It was also this desire that

caused me to be disappointed in the trip even though some of the children remarked that

they had enjoyed the trip, a thought that was echoed by some of the adults. I proceeded

under the notion that one could actually plan for the aesthetic even though I knew as a

musician that profoundly deep experiences do not happen because one has planned for

them. One can only hope for them and be prepared for them.

Sometimes when I play the piano I lose myself in the music. Each note resonates with a significance which until that moment was hidden. A phrase suddenly takes on new meaning. It will allude to something before or to something which follows. Nothing stands in isolation and there is a wonderfbl wholeness to my playing. I find the perfect weight to produce a liquid quality to the sound. My fourth and fifth fingers find the facility and fluidity to produce a shimmer of sound equal to my more technically adept second and third fingers. It is exhilarating to play. I lose track of time, suspended in a web of sound.

But these moments are ephemeral. I can never predict when this will happen. Certain things can set up the possibility for them to occur. I can ensure that I have worked technically so that my fingers are capable of managing the demands of the piece. 1can 71 seek pianos that are responsive to my own quirks and idiosyncrasies for such moments never occur when I play on abused and out of tune upright instruments. However, quality of instrument is not the only issue, for when I have had the opportunity to play concert sized grand pianos I have felt strangely detached fiom the sound, as though it emanated fiom a place far beyond me. When this is the case, 1 lose a sense of where the music comes fiom.

I also know that these moments, for me, do not happen in front of an audience. This is why I never seriously pursued a concert career. The audience gave something different to my playing, a heightened sense of awareness. Time slowed down and paradoxically sped up in front of an audience but I never "lost" myself in my playing. I always knew that the audience was there and I was performing.

As I write these words, I realize that what draws me to music is not per-form-ing but re-form- ing the music. I seek those moments when it happens and I am not alone in this quest. I play chamber music with a violinist, violist and cellist. Sometimes when we play, everything about the music is flat; the notes, the sound, the vibrancy and dynamics. At other times. a resonance occurs and everything that we play, wrong notes and ail, takes on a new character. We become attuned to each other, adjusting to the tempo, tone and character of each other's playing, much as I become attuned to an instrument I am familiar with. A classmom is like this. A sense of community emerges when we are attuned to each other.

In retrospect, I see that the Nose Hill field trip was part of the creation of community. The worth of the experience was not in its transcendental qualities but in its contribution to a rounding out of who we, as a class, were. Our becoming and being was not grounded in the singular experience of the field trip. Rather, our becoming and being was forming and re-forming through the ongoing dialogue and conversations of our classroom. Hindsight dlows me to see this.

In the year before I came to teach grade three, I had been on sabbatical and had been introduced to a variety of readings. I read about the pre-schools of Reggio Emilia and viewed The Hundred Languages of Children I* Exhibition. I was beguiled by the quality of the art work that the young children had produced and charmed by the images of pre-schoolers in a field of poppies and on the streets of Italy. Throughout the literature and the speakers that I heard who espoused the philosophy of Reggio ( Edwards, et al,

1993; Firiik, 1996; Gandini, 1993; Hendrick, 1997) , I heard the words, slow down. I thought that I understood these words but the experience of Nose Hill showed that lived experience is where understanding resides.

'%he Hundred Languages of Children Exluiition is a display that describes the educational process through photographs, children's artwork and explanatory scripts and paneIs that were created by the educators of Reggio Emilia (ItaIy) to tell North Americans audiences about their work. 73

Guided by the reading that I had done (Duckworth, 1987; Abram, 1996; Edwards, et al

1993; Gandini, 1993), I proceeded to plan for a wonderful experience. I harbored romantic visions of the children stopping to marvel at the wonder of a nest. In my mind's eye, I saw the children standing atop a viewpoint at Nose Hill, ail of them able to imagine the vast plains of the prairie that surrounded the park a hundred years ago. I was beguiled by the thought of children marveling at the generative cycle of seed pods at the seed garden area of the park. I diligently approached the itinerary of the trip with the zeal of a tour guide eager to reveal to a group of neophytes the wonders and magical happenings of the park. I planned the route, scripted the questions for parents to ask the children. searched for points of interest, prompted the children so that they would hopellly respond in an aesthetic fashion, provided art paper so that they could sketch on aesthetically pleasing paper and taught a song that we would sing at the top of the hill. In short, I planned for aesthetic experience and I was disappointed when it did not match the vision that I held in my head. How could it? I could no more plan for an aesthetic experience on a field trip than I couid when playing chamber music.

For a while 1became consumed by the question of how to provide aesthetic experiences.

How could one plan for them? Was it because I didn't have the right kind of class? Was my teaching at fault? Was that why I couldn't get the children to fdl into the spell of wonder? What was the magic key? Maybe if I just read another book or two the answer would come to me. I feIl into the modemist dilemma of thinking that a method would save me. I should have known that there was no method that could do this. Instead, I began to understand experience differently. John Dewey ( 1935) wrote of experience,

Experience occurs continuously, because the interaction of live creature and environing conditions is involved in the very process of living... . Oftentimes, however, the experience had is inchoate. Things are experienced but not in such a way that they are composed into an experience. (p. 35)

I understood the fallacy of my thinking. I had thought of experience as a specific incident, as a noun rather than a verb. As I recalled the incidents that opened this work, hindsight allowed me to see them through a different frame. Certainly they were examples of aesthetic experience but perhaps my way of thinking about experience was too narrow.

Tatiana, as she remembered and sang her repertoire of songs in Starbucks, did not remember a specific experience. She relived the experiencing of her experience. That is why she broke into song after song, why her hand froze as she made my latte as she relived the experience of singing Dona lVobis Pacem in a darkened classroom. Likewise,

Jake and Christy in the museum did not turn to me in terror because of their experience of being in a museum. They turned to me while experiencing the act of positioning and being positioned by a gun.

I began to understand what was important. What was worthwhile to Tatiana, Jake and

Jdie had more to do with seeing, feeling and hearing through eyes, body and ears open to wonder rather than the provision of wonderful experiences. It had to do with being attuned to the world, to the way that I was attuned to the children, their parents, my colleagues and our sharing of the world. Rather than focusing on the having of wonderN 75 experiences, perhaps experiencing with an openness to wonder was more what this was about.

I explored the idea further. Some of the parents of the children in my class had agreed to participate in the research. One parent spoke of experiencing the world in a way that espouses experience as an action rather than an event.

We value education and value experiencing the world as hlly as possible. To me that means fostering a kind of openness of spirit, to be able to assess when you walk into the world what exactly is going on and being open to what that experience can give you. I think in terms of a heart, a physical thing. When you have an open heart things can enter you and become you and you in a sense can respond back to them. There's a real interchange between inside and outside. It's a relationship you have with the world around. (Parent of Jeremy, Transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

This view of experience as an interchange, as a relationship between self and the world in an ongoing openness intrigued me. Was it this relationship that allowed for wonder and if so, could this relationship be fostered and nurtured?

I explored the wonder of wonder further. Hove (1996) wrote,

Wonder lies at the heart of what it is to be human: it places us directly and transparently in the face of the world in which we live with others. Wonder reveals things in a new light and tends to promote mindfbl and gentle regard for their inherent worth. @. 437) and later,

A world without wonder is bereft of possibility. (p. 44 1)

1 wondered how a classroom could be the kind of place that revealed things "in a new light" @. 437). Was the wonder experienced by Tatiana, Sake and Christy just a happy 76 accident or could a teacher have agency in creating the possibility of wonder? I recalled the words of Jagodzinski (1992,16 1-162), and his thought that dialogue begins with a question. I was once again reminded of the original difficulty of teaching, the difficulty of teaching is learning, not teaching. The question was not how would I teach, but how could I allow space for learning. Learning. with its dialogue of questions, wondering, wanderings and queries seemed to speak of an experiencing of the world where wonder might have a place.

But it seemed that the only certainty was that this space was grounded in uncertainty! To wonder is to be astonished by that which confronts us, whether it be an idea, an occurrence, or an artifact from nature. One cannot plan to be astonished. one can only allow for its possibility.

And so, in the same way that I had learned to listen as a musician, to allow myself to fdl into the spell of music, the children and I attuned ourselves to each other and the world around us. We fell into the spell of the world and each other. We heard resonances of the past and the hture in seeds, rocks, clay, songs, stories, and poems. They enchanted us.

They breathed life into our classroom and we breathed life into them. And, who was the teacher? Was it the rock, the poem, the song? Was it me or was it the children? It didn't matter. Together, we fell into the spell of wonder. Variation IS

Segue to Sunflowers: October 5

The air is tinged with the crispness of autumn as 1 step from my car. The sky is that amazingly intense blue that is native to the prairies. The color sears into my brain as though it fears that it will be forgotten in the eventual dark, cold days of winter.

I juggle numerous items as I struggle to keep any from slipping through my grasp while fiunbling with my keys and the task of locking my car. In my arms I carry a crate which is packed with numerous library books, my lunch, file folders, a vase and a bunch of enormous sunflowers harvested from my garden. My briefcase strap threatens to slip off of my shoulder and come crashing down destined to upset the delicate balance of the things in hand. I am unable to see clearly in Front of me for the crate blocks my field of vision and I gingerly make my way down the gravel strewn asphalt, all the while hoping that I won't start to skid because of my hard-soled shoes.

At the door of my classroom, the whole sequence is reversed as I set down various items then attempt to unlock the door. This requires two hands as I must both turn the key while pulling the door open. The sunflowers are perched precariously on the top of the crate and

I attempt to shield them from the wind which is no mean feat as the same wind threatens to lift my skirt in a most immodest manner. Fortuuately, it is early and no one is present to witness the comedy of errors. 78

Finally, I deposit everything in the room and grab the vase and flowers so that 1 can find water for them. I have to go into the main building for this as there is no water supply in the Purple Zen Room. Once again I juggle keys, flowers, vase and wind before gaining entry into the school. Another teacher passes me in the hall.

"You make such a romantic vision with your sunflowers and long skirt."

If she only knew. Variation 16

LargandoIg: October 6,1998

We are gathered on the carpet. Megan has brought in a faded sunflower from her garden and we are making an inventory of how the sunflower she has brought in is different from the flowers I have brought in.

I have read the story, "The Tiny Seed" (Carle, 1970) to the children and 1 am wondering if they realize that Megan's flower has gone to seed. It seems not. for they are focused on the idea that her's is "not as new". or "dead" while mine are fiesh and colofil. 1 ask the children if they know what is in the middle of the sunflower.

"Black stuff," one says.

"Other pieces of the flower," another says.

"Honey." from another.

I ask, "What will there be if I pull out this part of the middle?"

"I've done that before!" says Richard. "The whole thing will fail apart and it will leave yellow yucky stuff on your hands!"

------I9 A musical term meaning gradualIy slowing down. 80

The class is excited by the prospect of this and they urge me to do it. No one volunteers to do this themselves. The children look intently as I carefully put out one section with two of my fingers, then they crowd in for a closer examination of what I hold. None of them identify what it is.

I ask, "Have you seen this before?"

Craig blurts out, for he has managed to wedge his body into the most favorable viewing position and blocks the view for several others, "It's like a seed." There is no hesitation to his voice.

"Well Craig, it is a seed."

There is silence fiom the children. It is as thought they cannot quite fathom this.

One child says, "It looks like the kind of seed that you can eat."

I answer. "It's exactly that kind of seed, but we would probably want to roast it before we tasted it."

Megan pipes up, "It's the kind of seed that the birds eat." 81

Craig has his fingers right into the sunflower and is prying out other seeds. He pulls out one, then another and many of the other children attempt to dig in as well. It becomes apparent to the class that the whole middle of the sunflower holds hundreds of seeds.

There is a flurry of talk centred around how some children knew this all along, how some of them want to eat them, as well as admonishments to Craig to get out of the way so that others can have a turn. The talk ceases to be a conversation and threatens to turn into a shouting match as various children seek to have their voices heard.

Order is recovered when I send the children to their desks and tell them that I have something special for them to sketch. Then I hand out seed pods which I have collected fiom my garden. but I don't tell them what they are. Their task is to sketch the object without touching it.

There is a sense of purpose as the children look intently, struggling to capture the dimensionality of the pods and the variations in color. As they sketch, I circulate around the room, handing out pods that contrast with the ones they are working on. The children talk as they sketch but it is not the talk of what they will play at lunch time or of the newest Playstation Game that they might have acquired. Lnstead, they compare the pods, commenting on how one Looks old and dried up while another one has strange lumpy things on it, while still another looks son of like the vegetables in Chinese food. They still have not figured out that these are ail seed pods. 82

When the children have completed at least two different sketches, 1 tell them the objects in their hands are seed pods and to carellly take them apart. There are cries of excitement as they do this. Jack breaks open a poppy seed head and there are thousands of small black dots all over his paper. Richard pries back the folds of a lavatera pod and complains that his is broken. there are no seeds here. 1 identify them for him as he holds one tenderly in his fingers, up to the light to examine it more closely. Geoff looks up at me, eyes full of wonder and says, "It's like a Kinder Egg'', Mrs. Parker!" The excitement in the room is akin to the excitement of an Easter morning egg hunt as the children call out to each other to see what is in their pod. They rush fiom their seats to compare their findings with their friends, then hurry back to their desks in anticipation of what they will next discover.

Then the children sketch their broken seed pods and the seeds that were inside. Once again I am impressed with the detail and care that they take. It seems as if they realize what a gift it is to hold the seeds in their hands and to imagine how it might become something quite wonderful. It is as though they can feel the possibilities inherent in the seed. Organic. Careful. Tender. They treat them with delicacy and care, as though they are a gift fiom the plant. Somehow there is a deep understanding that can not be verbalized, a sense of wonder. No one tosses them about the room or lets them fall fiom their desks.

They are protected.

I0 Kinder Eggs are a type of hollow chocolate egg that holds a small toy within it. They are popular at Easter. 83

I reread "The Tiny Seed" by Eric Carle (1970). They sit enrapt in the story, in its cycle of

generativity. I could feel their painful response as each seed was prevented from realizing

its possibilities and their joy in celebrating the success of the seed that reached maturity,

death and regeneration. The profimdity of the story does not escape them.

They begin to write their own seed stories. All of them write. Even Jack, Craig and Bob. I

am surprised. I didn't think that this would have the effect that it has and I don't want the

morning to end. By lunch. Jack has produced a full page and it is good! It is imaginative

and descriptive. It is more than he has ever written before. It gives me a part of him to

hang on to, a part which holds more possibility than the psychological assessment in his cumulative file which states that he is functioning at a level just above that of mental

retardation. Variation 17

Largo2': Reflections from my Field Journal, October, 1998

I am starting to understand some of the reading that I have done in a different way.

Actually, it is not so much that I am understanding it in a different way as much as it is that I am making sense of it, making meaning of it.

When we were looking at the sunflower seeds, my initial plan was to sculpt the sunflowers in wire, an activity that the teachers in Reggio Emilia advocate. It is their thinking that sculpting in different media such as clay, wire or paper mache, allows the children to construct knowledge in a different way. The Reggio teachers view alternate media as other languages that the children use to express their understanding of the world

(Edwards, 1993; Forman, 1994; Hendrick, 1997).

I am quite certain that the children were unaware of my original intent, and in retrospect it is apparent that I soon lost sight of this. In the space of that suspended intent, something quite wonder-fuIl happened. We did not intend to be a certain way in the classroom, we simply were. It was not so much that we set out to find and identify the aesthetic as it was that we fell into oneness with the seeds. We acted with care and tact. The experience became rneanin@I but I could not have predicted the way in which it became meanin*.

" A musical term meaning very sIow and broad. In Phenomenology of Perception, Merleau-Ponty (1962) writes of how meaning is brought into existence.

The musical meaning of a sonata is inseparable from the sounds which are its vehicle... . During the performance, the notes are not only the 'signs' of the sonata, but it is there through them, it enten into them ... . Thought is no 'internal' thing, and does not exist independently of the world and of words. @. 183)

The meaning is inseparable from the sounds. Meaning does not exist in a void as something pure or abstract. We aIways have meaning of something. Meaning is always tied to perception and perception is always immanent and transcendent. (Merleau-Ponty,

1960). Meaning is as much what something is not, as what something is. But if meaning

is in perception, how do we hang on to this? How do we keep the experience? How do we make it something to "polish and keep" (Lawson, 1992)? What was it about the seeds that allowed the children to make sense of them? Why seeds and not a math fact?

The writing of David Abram in The Spell of the Sensuous (1996) helped me make sense of the seed happenings of my classroom. Paradoxically, at the same time, the seed happenings helped me understand the meaning inherent in Abram. In his explanation of

"phenomenology on the way to ecology" he writes of the animateness of the perceptual world, of the presences offered by other beings and the tuning of the senses.

When my body thus responds to the mute solicitation of another being, that being responds in turn, disclosing to my senses some new aspect of dimension that in turn invites fUrther exploration. By this process my sensing body gradually attunes itself to the style of this other presence -to the way of this stone, or tree, or table- as the other seems to adjust itself to my own style and sensitivity. In this manner the simplest thing may become a world for me, as, conversely, the thing or being comes to take its place more deeply in my world. (Abram, 1996,52)

The sensor and the sensible be. We became with the seeds. For the first time in this classroom, 1 felt that we, as a classroom community. had fused with something larger than us. We were seeking meaning and understanding in a deep way. We had glimpses that things hold more meaning than what is present at hand. We began to see how being in a classroom is more than a succession of activities. And perhaps we caught a glimpse that we ourselves hold the past, present and hture in any given moment. The moments were intoxicating, enchanting, but fragile, destroyed by the ringing of the recess bell and an announcement from the oflice.

I feel a sense of astonishment, of wonder. at the realization that I am not using phenomenology and hermeneutics as a method to conduct this research study. We, a classroom of eight year olds and their teacher, are being the space of phenomenology and hermeneutics. Variation 18

Re-memberiag the Classroom: October 27,1998

I am sick. I have strep throat. My doctor gasped when she looked at my throat I have been alternating between extremes of temperature where I am freezing as though I'm in the wasteland of the tundra then sweating as though I'm in the jungle of the tropics. My throat feels fine unless I try to swallow or talk. Then it feels as though I have swallowed hot coals.

I have been having the strangest dreams in my fevered state. A comment from the NCTM

" Conference about how math is about change has taken root in my head and caused me to have strangely delusional thoughts which seem quite brilliant when I am in a fevered state and absolutely ridiculous when I am more lucid.

As I lie about the house, I wonder if I am well enough to teach. Perhaps I am being a wimp, merely looking for an excuse to stay away fiom the class. Then I stand up and realize that moving from one room to the next causes my heart and head to pound and that my legs are strangely detached fiom the rest of my body.

It has been a bit of an ordeal trying to find a substitute teacher. I phone the school to see if my sub can stay another day or two. She is not able to. I ask how her day has been, did she find my lesson plan and everything that she needed?

National Council of Teachers of Mathematics "Oh yes, thank you for leaving such a detailed plan."

I ask how the children were. I know that this is not an easy class.

"Oh. well they were fine. 1 had to put a few of them in their place then afier that we were fine."

This last comment makes me uneasy. I quickly say good bye as it seems pointless to continue. I have to find a substitute teacher who is available for the next two days. I will have to write up a new day plan. explain the routines over again, try to guess where materials in the room might be after being away from the classroom.

Later it strikes me why her comment was so wrong. Why did she feel the need to say that she put the children in their place. The children are in their place. The class is theirs. It was she who was the Other. Variation 19

A Rock Song

We have been looking at rocks and minerals, a science unit in the grade three curriculum.

The children love to examine the rocks, caressing them and noticing the way light sparkles off of the crystal formations. Several children have brought rocks from their own special collections at home and we share these. passing them around these artifacts with a sense of reverence - well for most of the children. Some of the children will say "It's only a rock like the ones on the playground!" but these voices get shushed by the other children who are becoming more attuned to the notion that the rocks are offiered as gifts that we might learn from.

A parent of a child wrote me a wonderful note today. It was hi1 of observations that she has made about her daughter's understanding of rocks.

November, 1998

From Marnie 's Point of View...

-loved the movie about chemical reactions and looked about the kitchen to start some (reactions) -talked u greai deal about rockr, how old they are, how old we are (looking for relationships) "Iwmt to be a geologist when Igrow rip!" was yesterdq's commentfiom her *Shecould identza some have quartz while others are simply good "kippers" & the "brownones you can write with" (we have some which have oxidized). I believe she views [he geo[ogy section us important % sees that we need rock to perform various tash including the pleasures derived- skipping stones 90

I had forgotten about the aesthetics of skipping stones. Perhaps the lifeworld of an eight year old is in the aesthetic. Maybe they know all along and gradually forget the aesthetic as they get older.

What does it mean to forget? Etymologically, the prefix for indicated neglect or refusal to do (Webster, 1959). When combined with the verb get. toforget is to neglect or refuse to come into possession, obtain, acquire or receive. To forget speaks of a loss of care. It implies that what stands before it lacks value, and is therefore to be refused or ignored.

Forget is a verb, a word of action that impacts an object. To forget is to succumb to a kind of blindness that fails to value or even recognize the gifts before it. It speaks of deafhess, an inability to hear/ listen to that which is offered. To forget is to be unable to re-call, it is an inability to speak.

I wonder how much of what we do in schools is about forgetting. When we present children with an Internet site or a textbook that limits a study of rocks to geological formations and classifications of rocks and minerals, we are removing them ffom the rocks that pebble the school ground. Reducing a study of rocks to lists of classifications is an act of betrayd. It betrays the potential of the rock to become something other than a name on a list and it betrays the potential of children to see the rock as a sign of a world they are connected to. Forgetting is a ester act of separation. 91

Aesthetic space resists the temptation to simplify and categorize rocks, children and that which surrounds us. Aesthetic space values these. It resists forgetfulness. It seeks to re-member the worid as a place where ail things, animate and inanimate, breathe together. Variation 20

The Aesthetics of Clay: November 13,1998

Thank goodness for the parents. They understand me and what I want to do in the cIassroom better than most of the other staff members.

Jeremy's mother, AM^, is an artist. She has volunteered to lead us in a lesson using clay.

We are going to explore her idea of the aesthetic of mountains. The children are excited and we have done a lot of talk about how mountains are formed, what they are made of and how long ago dl of this happened.

The clay is incredibly hard. It's a good thing that the children have not had much prior experience or they would have given up. But they persevere, twisting the hard lumps into tinier bits, pressing the clay against burlap that threatens to lift off of their desks, using the full weight of their small bodies to press the clay into one viable piece that can be worked. Michelle is an expert, as is Tom. They circulate and help the other children. I am covered up to my elbows and concentrate only on the lump at hand.

It's the same all over the room. A strange sense of peace falls over the room as together we become one with the clay. It is an organic experience. Most of the children choose to stay in at recess. They are reluctant to leave the piece that they have worked so hard to prepare* 93

A few go out. When they come in, Mary and Bob tell me that they don't want to do ciay anymore. Such innocence. They have accepted that what we have been through is the creative part. How much of school is like this? We just work away and do the job.

Sometimes it even makes us sweat.

I am surprised, then I tell them that they have only been preparing the clay. Now they actually get to make something. Now they are going to be artists. "Oh!" they say.

Anni shows the children how to throw a slab. Water and clay splash everywhere as mounds of clay are thrown against work surfaces. It's great h.Then hishows the children how to cut different slabs, how to choose what part they want to keep, how to modify, squish and form. How sometimes what happens just happens because of the nature of the medium. Then we turn the children loose.

There is a sense of purpose in the room. Some of the children gravitate towards rolling pins while others slam their slabs against the desks.

Teya is having a hard time. Her clay is getting too soft and it is difficult to roll and to throw. I help her throw a slab. Actually I do it for her. Then we build a volcano. I can't stop myself. I do it with her. Then I force myself away. I know that I shouldn't be thinking of the product but I'm worried that if she doesn't have one that she will be upset and fbitmted by it. 94

A few minutes later I come back. She has destroyed our work! She has flattened our quite

Lovely volcano and is adding still more water to her clay! I have to force myself to be the adult. I have to remind myself that it is the experience that is important and I am amused by the ownership which I feel for the destroyed work.

I'm not enough of an adult to teach. I just want to play the way that the children are.

Gabriela is whining that her clay "doesn't work". Anni is infinitely patient with Gabriela and tells her that she'll just have to work it out for herself. I am so impressed by this and half expect a giant hissy tit and clay thrown down in disgust. But Gabriela perseveres and creates something.

Clean up is amazing. Everyone helps. The children actually ask me if there are more sponges and what can they do now. The spirit of cooperation is one that is new to the classroom. It is a wonderful feeling.

We are alI physically tired and covered in sediment.

Craig's face bears the traces as clumps of clay are on his eyebrows and in his hair. His

T-shirt looks like an ad for laundry detergent. He has lived with the clay and probably eaten it as well. 95

In the afternoon we write about the experience and what was dEcult about working with it. Then I put on a video as I scurry around trying to pull together notebooks to do report cards and make it to a meeting on time.

I lean in to say good-bye over the sound and images of the video. Several of the children leap up to give me a hug. There is a very nice feeling in the room. We have become something different.

Even the principal comments on this. She notices a difference when she makes a tour during writing time.

I go to my meeting at the Performing Arts Centrez. It is a planning meeting for our upcoming week at the Arts Centre. Today's meeting includes a tour of all of the performing spaces.

I play the Steinway Concert Grands. I feel like an artist. I am validated when the technician says he'd rather be preparing the piano for me than the Russian virtuoso who will play in two hours time.

What a wonderful day.

A facility which houses performing space for several resident theater companies as well as the Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra. Variation 2 1

What does it mean to play?

I ask the children, "How do you play?"

They look at me as though they can't quite believe what I'm asking of them. They're not

sure if they've heard correctly.

Wade inches his body behind the person infiont of him so that Richard f body blockr him from my view. I can make out fain! movement. I sense it more than see it.

I ask the class again, "How do you play?"

Craig says, "Well I get the football and I go outside and then we play."

"But how do you start to play?'

Craig thinks I haven't been listening. He explains slowly and patiently as though speaking

to a small child or an adult who has forgotten the life world of an eight year old. "I get

the ball and then we play." He motions with his head and arms as if to say, "Duh ... (how

thick can you be?)".

- - --- 24 A musical term meaning jokingly playhi. Out of the corner of my eye I see Wade diggrgrngdeep into his pocket. His hand squirms in his pocket, searching for a piece of contraband The hand stops. He has found it! His fingers curl protectively mound the object.

1can't seem to get this idea to play out. So I ask Suzanne, "Suzanne, how do you get into play?"

Suzanne considers this. She's hesitant because she thinks I'm looking for something and

I'm not giving her any clues as to the correct response. She cocks her head to one side, a puzzled expression on her face, then says in a mall voice, "Well, if I don't know the person, I just go up to the person and say, 'Do you want to play?' And then they do and that's how I meet fiends. That's how I met Michelle."

The object in Wade 's hand is a small vehicle of some sort. He begins to run it along the carpet, infiont oj'him.

Michelle adds to Swanne's comment. "Yeah. I remember. Suzanne had this big ball in grade one and she came up to me on the part by the hill and then we played and became best Eends."

The object is a truck It ventures out to new tetritory in search of more challenging terrain. Now it is on Wade 's bee, struggling to surmount the barriers set up by the thick folh of his punts. Oh! Ii has made the descent into the hohw between his knees and faces a seemingly insurmountable trek up the other leg. It revs up for rhe leap over to his other knee. Made it! Now it scoots over the second knee and back down to rhe carpet, then mound to where it stmted the joznney.

Others join in the discussion and add to the strategies that children use for meeting people and making fiends but we are still not talking about play. I try a different kind of question. "Do we play in school?"

"Yeah. We play in phys ed and at recess and Iunch ..."

The truck has developedflight capabilip. It swoops back and forth behind Richard's back, hovering like a helicopter in some crazy search pattern.

"But do we ever play in this classroom?"

Richard says, "Well if it's an indoor recess we get to play 'Heads Up, Seven Up' ... Wade.

STOP IT!!!"

Wade has committed a grave tacticui error. The helicopter pilot chose to make an emergency landing in hostile territory. Richard has reported the presence of an intrtider. I have no choice, the chain of command compels me lo take action. I hold out my hand and Wade meekly places the truck cum helicopter in it. His eyes watch myfmgers close andfollow the path my hand makes to my pocket. I never considered pockets important until I taught this cIuss.

I try again, "No, I don't mean do we play games, I mean do we ever play in this class?

Like what about when we do math tubs or science centres. What about the things that I put in them?"

Bob says, "But that's not playing." This is taken up by several other chiidren. I hear mumbling that that's not playing. Craig says, "That's work! That's school stufl!?" 99

I feel a prickle of annoyance run up my spine. My jaw tightens. Don't they realize how much time and effort I put into designing these centres? Don't they appreciate that I try to make learning fim and enjoyable? Ungratefid children! I should teach tiom worksheets.

But this is not their fault. The children whisper and shift. I can teil from the sound and body language that this discussion is not going to go anywhere today. They don't want to play with me, they want to get on with their work so I move away from "play" and into

"work".

But the notion of play intrigues me. It seems that our best work in the classroom comes, paradoxically, when we play with seeds or clay or ideas. I want to play more with the idea of play.

In Art as Experience, John Dewey (1934) notes that the play of children is marked by an order of progression. He compares the fmt manifestations of play by a child to that of a kitten playing with a spool of yarn. The spool becomes the stimulus and occasion for play but such play does not change the object of play nor is there an end to be attained by the play save for the enjoyment of the moment.

Dewey believed that as experience matures, "activities are more and more regulated by an end to be attained"@. 278). The play becomes more purposell, resulting in an ordering of both activities and materials. Past experiences give more meaning to the play as the child remembers prior experience.

Play as an event is still immediate. But its content consists of a mediation of present materials by ideas drawn &om past experience. This transition effects a transformation of play into work, provided that work is not identified with toil or labor. For any activity becomes work when it is directed by accomplishment of a definite material result, and it is labor only as the activities are onerous, undergone as mere means by which to secure a result. (p. 279)

In schools, we have fallen into a false dichotomy. Play and work have become separated,

Play is seen as chiIdish and immature. It is a bodied experience, a stage that we must hurry children through. Work is valued over play. and teacher talk is rife with phrases such as, "All right, you've had your time to play. Now let's get down to work." Work is a minded experience. It lives not in the body but as words and numbers on a page.

Schooling moves children horn playll, immature beings to beings who are able to resist their bodies, individuals who can exercise "mind over matter", beings who have forgotten that the geological lists, categories and tables on an Internet site represent stones that can skip across a river. Early childhood classrooms abound with sand tables, water tables, easels, cIirnbing apparatus, centres that children are encouraged to move through and explore but even by grade one. many of these 'play" things are absent. One would be hard pressed to find materials to play with in a grade nine classroom. In schools, the absence of play things dl too often signals the absence of play. SimiIarIy, subject areas that favor bodied play are seen as less academic than cunicula which favor the mind. After all, there are no provincial achievement tests in physical education or drama 101

Dewey explains that a dualism between subject and object have "infected" ideas of play.

That is, viewing play fiom the standpoint of a subject who plays with an object or an idea is not where play lives. Play is not what one does to something. It is the doing of play where play lives. Wade is as much at play with the truck as the tntck is playing with

Wade. Play is the delicious space of in-betweenness, a space of uncertainty. Play is not predetermined. There are no predictable outcomes of how the play will play out. There is no methodological handbook that will teach us how to play, for the character of play resists that.

In Tmth and Method, (1975), Hans-Georg Gadamer devotes a chapter to Play as the

Clue to Ontological Explanation. Gadamer defines play as a process that takes place "in between" (Gadamer, 1975, 109). He explains that in play, the spectators are as much in the play as the players. The spectators become players in an event "which goes beyond the subjectivity both of the creator and of the spectator or listener." (p. 1 18).

In classrooms, play has fallen prey to the dualism Dewey referred to. Play in classrooms, is associated with playing with things, it has lost it character of eventllness. Teachers of young children have been encouraged to N1 their classroom spaces with math manipulatives, science exploration centres, hats and costumes to stimulate dramatic play, stamps, interesting paper, pens and book making materials to encourage creative writing.

I have known coIleagues who created such physical spaces, only to be disappointed when the hoped for creative product of play, work, did not emerge. Play is not solely dependent 102 on the quality of objects played with. Play is a state entered only when the player and the object meld into a shared space of undetermined possibilities.

Play Mfills its purpose only if the player loses himself in play. Seriousness is not merely something that calls us away from play; rather, seriousness in playing is necessary to make the play wholly play .... The mode of being of play does not allow the player to behave toward play as if toward an object. (Gadarner, 1975, 102.)

Ifplay is not the object played with, how can play be realized in a classroom? The task lies in finding a way into the space of seriousness to which Gadamer refers. In our classroom, play happened when we took up ideas and objects as signs of something greater. We played with questions and possibilities of what a rock, or leaf. or poem might mean. We played with abstract ideas. We wondered why a certain problem would appear in a math text. Why would it be important for us to know about the number zero? What did zero represent? We played with words. We looked at poems written by our classmates and wondered if the meaning would change if we changed the white space on the page.

We became serious about silence, not in the sense of classroom management or control, but for what the silence could tell us. Whose voice was siIenced? Whose story was hidden in the layers of history we read about? What story made it possible for man to plunder the earth or damage each other? We learned to proceed with care and were not so quick to dismiss that which was before us. When we were in this space of seriousness, we were in an aesthetic space for we found something beautifid about the rockAeaDpoem/number/idea and it became a part of us. Playfulness and seriousness were not mutually exclusive, they coexisted and hsed in a symbiotic relationship. 103

When we think of play, several qualities emerge. There is a quality of invitation to play.

In our classroom, it was often a question that set the play in motion. At other times it was

a set of materials or objects that called us to the space of play. In play, something beckons

us, appeals to us, causes us to linger in a manner that opens up the possibility for the

seriousness of play to take over. I have seen this in my classroom. Sometimes when I

introduce a new set of science centres or math activities to children, they become

impatient with me. Their interest is piqued. They will me to quit talking, to allow them

the chance to play. There is a delicious sense of anticipation, of the prospect that what we

enter into will be enjoyable, for play is enjoyable. In the words of the children it is "W.

But the seriousness of play is more than "fun" which alludes to a certain character of

hticactivity. Play is pleasurable. It is to be savored for the play changes the player. In

the following passage, Gadamer postulates that play is the mode of being of the work of

art.

The work of art has its true being in the fact that it becomes an experience that changes the person who experiences it. The "subject" of the experience of art, that which remains and endures, is not the subjectivity of the person who experiences it but the work itselt (Gadamer, 1975, 102.)

When I play my piano and I become Ion in a Brahms Intermezzo, play takes on the

character of deepening my understanding of Brahms, music, and life in a way that words

cannot express. At these times, play is richly satisfying to my soul. Anni, the parent who

introduced the children to clay, and I spoke about this. She spoke of ineffable qualities that draw her to creating art, For me, the means is the important thing. Once I get there I don't care about it. It's just Like, 'Oh, that was a wonderful process. Let's just go through that again.' (Transcript of a taped conversation, November, 1998 .)

The enjoyment of play does not come fiom the production of something. The pleasure of play is not to be found in the creation of an object. The pleasure is in the relationship with the object. Thus, when Teya spends an entire morning molding her clay, enjoying the feel of it in her hands, feeling the weight and coolness of it as it coats her fingers and creeps up towards her elbow, she is at play. When she smells the earthy sensuousness of the clay, and the grittiness of the dry lumps that have yet to be blended with water, when she imagines the origins of the clay, of sediments suspended in an ancient flow then coming to rest on the banks of a river. she is at play. Play does not have to result in a tangible outcome. The qualities of play are not in the mountain or volcano that failed to emerge fiom Teya's clay, they are in experience.

When we play, time takes on a different character. In formalized games, the passage of time takes on a heightened significance: we must score a goal before it is too late! But there are other times when play is less formalized. When there is not a structure to the play, no rules, protocols, or set boundaries, when our being is play, it is as if time stands still. We become lost in the pleasure of the experience and are only brought back by the ringing of the telephone, an anuouncernent over the intercom or the interruption of a bell that signals, ironically, that it is recess time?time to play. When this happens, we resist the cd to come out of play. We ate reluctant to leave. We want the play to go on. At these times the children will groan that they are not ready, they finger over their play, 105 their bodies resist movement away fiom the play. They attempt to negotiate ways of returning to the play, "Can we do this again? Can we just have five more minutes? Can we take this home?" Their reluctance to relinquish play is a manifestation of their seriousness in play.

However, this seriousness is at odds with common notions about play as non-serious and hence frivolous. Dewey attributes this to the aforementioned false dichotomy raised by a subject and object dualism. He postdates that the underlying note of such a dualism is the idea that "esthetic experience is a release and escape from the pressure of 'reality"'

(Dewey, 1934,279). This raises two interesting ideas; first, that aesthetic experience is play, and second, that a dualistic perspective allows for the dismissal of play, and hence aesthetic experience, as not real.

The dualistic perspective that Dewey eschews interprets aesthetic experience as something one has. It turns the experience into a commodity, a "release and escape7'

(Dewey, 1934,279), perhaps a version of Prozac or another mood altering drug. As such, aesthetic experience can be dismissed in the same way that play can be dismissed. Within this dualism, aesthetic experience is viewed as a noun, a thing that is expendable, childish, and therefore easily dismissed. It is seen as play, an escape from the real business at hand, work. But like Dewey, my lived experience refbtes this notion. Aesthetic experience and play are not frivolous. They are not mere indulgences to while away the hours until we amve at the real business of work. In our classroom, it was aesthetic experience which connected us to the "real"-to the world. It was in the space of suspended intention, infinite possibility, and wonder of play that we found deep understanding of seeds and clay. Hans-Georg Gadamer (1989) explores this in Truth and Method when he writes,

"Reality" always stands in a horizon of desired or feared, or at any rate. still undecided fbture possibilities. Hence it is always the case that mutually exclusive expectations are aroused, not dlof which can be fulfilled. The undecidedness of the future permits such a superfluity of expectations that reality necessarily lags behind them. ( p. 1 12.)

As our year together unfolded, the character of play revealed itself in different ways. We played with things but not as objects in themselves. We played within a horizon of what might be revealed by things. Conversation took on a different character. The children no longer expected that there would be a "correct" or "right" answer to a query. They came to see that the best questions had no answers and that the world could not be simplified into rights and wrongs. We made moral decisions of how best to proceed in the world and how to proceed with care. We took pleasure in the unfolding of ideas in the same way that we had carefully broken open seed pods and released them to the wind. Sometimes conversation assumed a magical quality as we allowed ourselves to fall into what was present and yet to be revealed.

We fell into the speH of enchantment, but there was no trickery or deceit in this. Rather it was a spell of enchantment as when one falls in love, when one is beguiled by/with 107 another. Like falling in love, it was a spell which spoke of oneness and wholeness, a spell built on trust and understanding. And like fding in love, the spell of enchantment took time. We had to play together, work together, laugh together, cry together, in short, be together. And so interestingly, our work became the work of fmding play. Variation 23

Overture 'S to Listening: The Parents

Within the parameters of this research project, I had constructed opportunities to meet individually with several parents of children in my classroom. These meetings gave me an opening into conversations that took on remarkably different qualities than the more typical parentiteacher conferences that are part of the teacher-parent relationshipin schools.

As a parent, I suspected that there were other parents who felt the same way about learning and teaching as I did, but I had never explored this with the parents of my students. The conversations pertaining to this research made me realize how silent parental voice has been, save for when there is a problem or issue which we seek to resolve. The conversations changed the relationships I had with the parents. When I saw the genuine curiosity and interest they exhibited, I began to take great care to let them know what was happening in our classroom. I transcribed classroom conversations and included snippets of these and student work in letters that I wrote to the parents. These were well received and some parents began to respond to me. They relayed interesting conversations that they had had with their children through notes and phone calls. They chatted with me about cIassroom learning as I stood outside on supervision or as we rode

- - -- H&ay through The Goldberg Vmbtions Bach introduces another overture. It is seemingly out of place, for an overture is traditionally thought to be an opening movement In Bach's case, the second overture provides a new context for the variations that follow. In the case of this thesis, the second overture serves a similar purpose. It is an opening to a new space, an opportunity, a new context for hearing the rest of the work. 109 on the bus during field trips. Some parents sent interesting materials to share with the class and many parents thanked me for of sharing actual accounts of the work at play in our classroom.

Before I embarked on this inquiry, I was required to submit a proposal for ethical consideration. At that time I had no idea of what school I would be assigned to or what grade I would be teaching let done how the parents of the students would respond. The person in charge of ethical considerations for my school board suggested some changes to the parent letter so that I would have a higher rate of parent participation. She wished me luck in finding parent participants.

However, when I first presented the proposal to the parents of the grade three class I was assigned to, I was overwheimed by the number of responses. I speculated that there was either a high degree of interest in the area of aesthetics, the parents were eager to show interest in a manner that might benefit their child, or that many of them had not read the letter and responded to the onslaught of paperwork bombarding them in early September with a quick signature. I suspected the latter. So a month later, I created a rather intimidating set of questions as a frame for our conversations and sent these to the parent participants with a note that I understood if they were experiencing time constraints and had to bow out fiom participating. Even with this, I ended up with eleven mothers whom

I met with individually. The excerpts which follow are taken from taped conversations during November 1998. 110

Over the course of our conversations, certain common themes emerged. One of these was how each mother understood the relationship between the world, the child, and themselves. Many of the mothers viewed relationships as the sharing of gifts. They understood it as the world presenting a gift. accepting the gift, then sharing the gift with a loved one. The act of sharing enhances the gift, makes it more valuable. It becomes personalized. One mother talked about how her daughter reminds her to stop and examine what she usually takes for granted.

She's a neat child. She sees a side of things that you don't, you know? She brings that out in me. She brings me back to that child spot whereas the others. the boys, are always busy doing, doing. They're always going. I called them (her children) out on the step one night last summer and (said) "Look at the balloons!'' and she was just like jumping up and down

(saying) " Oh! look how close they are !" and it's just like WOW!

And she loves art and color and things like that. Little things like the colors, like "Look at the colors in the flowers Mummy." And it's like "Oh yeah, you're right, look at the colors in that flower." She's just neat that way. And the thing about parenting that I find is that you don't always, I guess it's like being a teacher, you don't always notice it. You know? Or else you're busy and it's like "nice flower" (said in a distracted way) and you know it's when you stop and think about what they're saying and actually realize that it's important that it makes a BIG DIFFERENCE!!!! (Parent of Becky, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

One mother spoke of how the gift emerged.

She does more observing than others do. The rest of us don't really notice or pay attentioa to what's going on, but she's so interested in what' s going on. She's always been like that. If you ask her something, she knows exactly. And we didn't know that. Even when she was younger she didn't talk for a long time and actually I was concerned because I thought she shouId be taking by now. When she did, she talked in full sentences. She knew how to taJk and she used to sit there, waiting for the opportunity and even now she doesn't really do a lot of talking ...but she can be very assertive. She knows exactly what she wants to tell you and that's it. There's no putting off! (Parent of Ali, transcript of a taped conversation7 November 1998.)

Another mother remembered seeing the Aurora Borealis one summer evening.

So we woke up the girls and took them out on the deck. And there we were, wrapped up in blankets, looking at the sky. It was a really special experience. A real family thing. (Parent of lanelle, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998 .)

Still another mother spoke of lessons she has learned from her children. She alluded to how knowing fear and insecurity are referents for knowing beauty.

These children have taught me a lot about returning to a beautill state of being. And it's even better going back a second time with the benefit of having gone through some life experiences and knowing fear and knowing insecurities. And you go back and relive those. (Parent of Jeremy, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

I am reminded that in the Goldberg Variations, the find movement is a restatement of the opening aria. But because one has experienced the thirty movements in between, the final movement differs vastly from the first. It takes on a character of its own. This kind of sharing existed not onIy in the relationship between the mothers and their children but also caused them to remember how their own parents had shared or in some cases how this was absent. Two interesting things are apparent in these conversations. One is that all of the experiences are linked to the natural world. Not a single mother mentioned experiences with piano lessons, dance, art or other line arts activities which are often considered the area of aesthetics. The other thing to note is that as these women shared their experiences of childhood, their descriptions included senses other than sight Vision was present, but so was Iistening and the sense of touch. One mother shared how her mother would call attention to things.

Oh, my mom was always calling us out to see something special. We used to sit on the porch and look at that big prairie sky and we'd watch the sunset. Or see how the clouds would roll in and how black everything would be before a storm. She was always doing that. (Parent of Janelle, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

Another parent shared how her father reminds her to listen.

My dad is constantly telling me to this day - and 1'11 be forty years old before you know it! - 'appreciate your children while they're young'. So I try to do that. But you don't always. I don't always because of floors and laundry and supper and life! But I try to keep my ears open. And listen as best I can (to) what they're saying. (Parent of Becky, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

One mother spoke of the how children experience the world through their lived bodies and her memories of this.

I think of a child's world as very physical, Full of sensations. That's what memories are, when you go back in your life and you think 'what memory did I have?' Well I didn't have a memory of me standing by the gate waving at the camera. The real memory is I'm standing by the gate and I'm feeling the wind on my hair and my skin. And the sun's beating down on a certain part of my back.

You know, you feel that, and those things enter you and become you. And you don't have a separation of yourself and the world. I think children understand that their emotions also impact the physicd environment... it's very wonderfid. And I have these memories of when I let life impact me to the fullest and I gave back as much as I was able. (Parent of Jeremy. transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

Still other mothers compared their childhood to the childhood they wished for their children, When we grew up, my sister and I, we lived a very regimented life in comparison to how my children are. We never made a mess like that or, you know, dragged in dead flowers @om the yard. It just didn't happen. (Parent of Candace, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

One mother enjoys creating beautihi things. When I asked her if she had done so as a child she answered,

My morn wouldn't ever take the time. I've done it basically ever since I moved out of the house. As a cMd there wasn't a whole lot to do. I was kind of in a repressed home. But oh well, that's another chapter. (Parent of Gabriela, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

Another mother is a writer, though she resisted being called a writer. She takes time to keep special journals for her children in the way that others might keep a scrapbook or a photo album.

I do like to write and so I write in their journals and it's a log of fun stuff, bad stuff, where I think they're at and where they think they're at. It's a memory book and it's a gift. I'm not sure quite when I'm, going to give it up because it's a big part of me. It will be a gift to them and I will photocopy all my pages in it.

I personally have no memories of that as a child, and nothing written down fiom my mom. My childhood is a very big blank and I think it would be nice for that not to happen for my children. (Parent of Mamie, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

The conversations with the mothers took me out of a place where I was obsessed with specific learner expectations and skiIIs. They forced me to remember that what I should want for their children is not much different than what I want for my own sons. The mothers did not talk about the importance of a certain topic in science or social studies. The conversations we had were beyond specific practices or skills. Instead, there is a pervasive quality of hope to all that they say about aesthetics.

You don't get everything that you think you want when you start out. Like my husband started out with medical school in mind and he's a teacher. And we are content and happy. And you don 't always get that house up on the hill. You need to find joy in your own Life doing things.

I think the gift that I would have liked to have been bestowed upon me is music- being able to sing. We sing a lot in our home but none of us can do it we11 - that's our big joke. I think those are dl important things. They add the color to life, the pleasure. Life is full of a lot of crap sometimes and you need places to turn sometimes to draw good things out of. Where you can stand and say, well all these bad things happened to me today but I know that I'm OK and I'm still a good person because of this.

The aesthetic is what life is, the good stuff in life is. You can have a really bad day, whatever, but the sun is shining, it feels warm on your face and that's life. That's how I look at it. And so ....not everyone excels at school. School is not for everyone. I think I've discovered that. But to walk away with, armed with, some tools so that you can make your way in the world. I mean we all eventually have to get a job and all sorts of things in the world. We all hopefully find joy in life and it sounds as though you are working towards arming them with tools to do that. As opposed to dragging everybody through the quicksand so that you dl do end up with A's or B's or whatever. (Parent of Mamie, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

Hope was also mentioned by a mother who felt that her education had been based in

"theory, theory, theory!". When we talked of ways of seeing the world, she said,

I hope she gets that. I hope she gets how to appreciate and see that there are different ways of doing things. Things that please them. For myself, I did a Lot of science things - theory - but what I like most is drama and expressing yourself non-verbally in dance. That's a beautifid art. (Parent of Michelle, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

Another parent remembered her own experiences in school and compared them to her child's. It's really come a long ways. I think she's learning so much more. I mean, I never said a word. Even if I wanted to ask a question I'd be too afraid and they'd (the teachers) get mad.

I want her thinking about what it is and wanting to know more instead of 'First, this is what you have to learn and then you'll have a test on this.' And soon you remember nothing! (Parent of Ali, transcript of a taped conversation. November 1998.)

Without hope, there is no future. And fostering a sense of hope carries a tremendous responsibility for parents and teacher alike. The words of one mother touched me both as a parent and a teacher and perhaps this is the space where responsible pedagogy lives.

It's a bitter sweetness. And that's what I felt birthing him. That here's a little being who is part of me and is no longer part of me. And I'm looking at him saying, 'You're your own self. And it feels like death to say, 'Good-bye'.

And I understood fiom that moment on. he was going to be moving slowly away. Forever, really, although we'd be connected in many ways. But that's what the movement was going to be. It's an ambivalent feeling.

He's brave. He's redly quite brave. And so I think that's also, in terms of aesthetics, that's an important point. When you take it, you don't take just the parts you like. You have to expect to take the whole gambit. And there's a very dark side to beauty. And you can lose yourself in there.

I think that's really the responsibility of parents and teachers. Because if you want your child to live in this world, you have to give them that. You have to give them an idea or model that it is safe to go to these places. There are ways out! You have to go there. You have to explore and trust who you are as a human being. Your integrity is going to be enough to get you out if you get stuck. (Parent of Jeremy, transcript of a taped conversation, November 1998.)

The worId of birth and death which this parent speaks of is far fiom a world of standardized tests, checklists of learning, specific learner outcomes, cuniculurn guides, diagnostic inventories or achievement tests. Our conversation of her son "losing" himself 116 in the "dark side of beauty" is a qualitatively different conversation than a typical parent teacher conference. This was true of all of the conversations. I felt as though was fmally having conversations about matters that were important to the hearts of these parents, conversations grounded by what they truly hoped for their children instead of the quick fixes and terse comments ("Reading for ten minutes every day with your child would be very beneficial" or "Please study this weekly spelling list", or "Mastery of basic facts is the key to doing well in math" or "Does he have a place to do his homework?", etc.), that usually form conversations with a parent.

The conversations about aesthetics were in themselves aesthetic. We sensed the hesitation in each other's voice. We felt ourselves grow small, almost insignificant in the face of a prairie sunset and the wonder of the aurora borealis. Tears came to our eyes as we relived the joy and ache of birthing a child who was both part of and separate from us. The mothers and 1 entered a space where we listened and shared with one another. We became lost in the thoughts of each other and were surprised that time had passed. We sought to understand and form meaning from what the other said. In listening with consideration to the words of the other, we caught glimpses of ourselves. In conversation, we were not parent and teacher, but women - mothers - sharing our hopes and fears for our children.

Sharing these matters of the heart, listening to them, imparted their own weight and density to my being in the classroom. Where once I might have created a rather generic anecdotal comment on a report card, I could not bring myself to be so careless in what I 117 was relaying to the parents. When faced with an exasperating situation with a child, I was more carem in my choice of words. The weight of pedagogic responsibility expanded from that of concern for the children to concern for the parents. Was I taking enough care for their children? Was I caring for their children in the way I hoped a teacher would care for mine? At times this threatened to consume me for I felt that I could never do enough. I even entertained thoughts of leaving teaching, an ironic and irresponsible solution to the problem of responsibility. I entered that %very dark side of beauty" that Jeremy's mother had referred to in our conversation.

For there is a dark side to listening. When you listen, you cannot un-hear what you have heard, you can only forget. The words themselves might be forgotten. One might be unable to quote the other person, but in conversations that matter, what remains is the embodied feelings of the words. You cannot un-hear the tremble in a voice, or the pause before speaking, the silence pregnant with consideration. You re-member the sounds, the upward and downward inflections, the sudden rushing forth in excitement, the quality of wonder as a thought is shared. The swelling of tears in your eyes is re-membered even if the actual words are forgotten. You re-member the text-ure of the conversation and text-ure is hard to forget. It is easier to ignore, to decide not to care.

Listening is hearing speaking. Listening hears that speaking is pro pelIed by the breath that rises from inside a living human body. The body takes in air, air which is the breath between us, and creates physical vibrations that are reflected offof the surfaces around I18 us. Unlike our eyes, we cannot close our ears and our body to hearing. The vibrations bombard us. Sound surrounds us and is taken into our own bodies. Sound resonates without us and in cavities within us. Sound is physically real-ized within us. Listening is to return words to these physical emanations, to real-ize them within ourselves.

We can for-get sounds, become unable to re-call them. We can choose to interpret them as stark, black and white words on a page. But to re-member words is to listen. Listening is the re-call-ing of sound. It is hearing the calls with generosity and sense-it-(ivity) for their first being. Listening and re-member-ing returns speaking to the living breath from whence it was born.

I could not proceed as though the parent conversations had not occurred for to do so would have been morally reprehensible. Therefore, I had to take the fragments of conversation that I re-member-ed and re-call-ed. I had to interpret them through my being with the children. In musical terms, we had to compose the fragments into a form that was harmonically pleasing to all of us. Dissonance was not ignored, for without the tension of dissonance, we cmotappreciate the sonorous richness of harmony.

When I began the year with the children and the parents we did not have enough hgments of sound to form a melody, let done to red-ize the harmony that would enrich it. We would for-get to (isten and hear only noise. But in time, we became more attuned to each other. Voices of parents, children, teacher, and the world began to form and coalesce into tangible sounds, sounds that we could re-call. We would have a

conversation about a topic I never dreamed eight year olds would care to explore.

Classroom happenings began to resonate with echoes and harmonics of the past, present

and future. A child would create a poem or paint an image close to their heart and we

would all share its beauty. We would embark on an investigation in math and discover

that ancient civilizations faced our same dilemma of understanding zero. Bridges came to

be understood as more than physical structures that connected places, they became

metaphors for our relating to one another, the past, the present and the future. Bridges

became our being as we bridged the spaces between one another, ideas, the animate, and

inanimate.

Listening was key. Listening let us lisr lean into the space of the Other. The archaic form of "list" denotes an inclination, a wish. It was our inclination and wish to linger in the

space of betweenness. We became more familiar with this territory and allowed ourselves to drift with the currents of conversation as a sailing ship might drift on a windless day.

Listening was a bridge to the speaking voice of the Other. Variation 23

Mezzo VoceZ6

I am very tired. This class is beginning to wear on me and though I go home wearily every evening, I am unable to sleep. Sometimes I stay up and attempt to make sense of things by writing my way through it, and other times I fall asleep only to awake at 3:00 a.m. unable to quell the noise of voices running through my head.

1am so wound up that I Feel the tension through every part of my body. Life is like one huge anxiety attack.

And yet there are moments of being awake.

Fiona sits quietly at my feet as the children gather at the carpet. She is hunched together as though her thin body cannot tolerate the morning chill of the classroom. It takes the heat generated by twenty-five bodies to warm the room to a temperature that takes the chill of being an isolated building. The pockets of warmth are not spread through the room until the children start the air mass mirling with their activity.

Fiona is drawn to texture. Sometimes when I read to the class, I feel her adjusting and smoothing the folds of my long skirts. She particularly likes my faux suede skirt and . sometimes leans forward to hold a comer to her cheek. At the beginning of the year, she

26 A musical term meaning quietly, literally ''with half a voice". 121 and some of the other girls would run their hands up and down my stockinged leg because their teacher Iast year loved the sensation. 1 find it distracting and am uncomfortable with the gesture so they have stopped. However, Fiona is still drawn to certain shoes of mine and loves to feel the smooth patent leather and brushes the nap of my suede pumps to see the subtle changes of color. Every now and then her fingers feel for the scar on my foot that lies hidden under my tights. She will absent-mindedly run a finger up and down in gentle strokes. Sometimes 1will cross my feet and cringe as I feel her take this as a sign of rejection so I tolerate her caresses even though they make me uncomfortable.

But today she sits with her shoulders hunched and her hands in her lap. She is a child who knows how to become invisible by making herself very still. She reminds me of deer who when they hear the crack of a branch, freeze unblinking, heads up and attentive, but still.

Nothing gets past her.

We finish our opening activities and the children dissolve into the partnerships that they read with. Fiona's partner is absent but I do not notice in the flurry of wing to settle

Craig, Wade, Bob, David, Mark, Mary and Craig.

The phone rings. It is Craig's mother wondering if she can have a word with me about an incident that happened in the gym yesterday. 122

I groan inwardly. I wasn't even in the gym yesterday. I have no idea what the incident was about and my class is chaotic. I worry for the safety of the other students as Craig swings his chair into position. He narrowly misses Fiona who in her quiet unassuming way remains oblivious to her close brush with injury.

I ask Craig's mom if I can call her back in a couple of minutes, then attempt to get everyone engaged in the activity. As I make my way back to the phone I am intercepted by Michelle who wants to tell me about her family story, Bob who is arguing with David about what book to read, Craig who is heading for the pencil sharpener even though he doesn't need his pencil and Kari who wants to tell me about her rabbit.

The resource teacher arrives and is able to help settle some of the children. I explain to others that I have to make an important call and that they will have to be independent while I do so.

At the phone I notice that Fiona is not reading. She is at her desk writing. I conclude the call by promising to talk to Craig and reassuring the mother that I will talk to the adults involved to try to find out what happened. Then I talk to Craig.

When we have resolved the mculty, I realize that Fiona is still writing at her desk. The bell rings as I approach her and she says, "My partner wasn't here so I had an idea for a 123 poem and I had to write it down. I had to get this down on paper or else it will disappear.

Want to read it?"

Of course I do. (The text of the poem follows on the next page. It appears in typed form and with corrected spelling, the only changes made from FionaTsoriginal copy.) Over the Hills

The song of the bird cheefilly echoed across the morning hills as far as the eye can see.

What is the eye's end?

Is it the end of hills or is it that the death of their life strikes them as their black cloud kills the light.

It is the death of the eye

But the mind's eye floats on and on.

Fiona January 27, I999 125

Then I am speechless. I can only say "This is so beautill Fiona. This is sooooo good...

Where did this come &om?"

7 don't know, I just had to write it!"

I am still speechless. I do not have an adequate response. She says, '4 think I still have a poem in my head. Can we write after recess?"

I was going to do science, but science can wait. "Of course you can. If you need to write, you write!"

"Oh boy, because when I grow up I want to be a poet. I've decided that that's what I want to be when I grow up - a poet!"

"Fiona, you already are a poet!"

"Yes, you are." 126

We both get our coats on for I am on supervision. Some of the girls stay with me instead of going off to play their own games. Fiona dances before us, her eyes sparkling and a huge smile on her face.

"I have another poem coming on. I can feel it. I can't wait to write it down." She dances around me to stay warm. She is shivering inside her big coat but she seems oblivious of any physical discomfort.

After recess I read her poem to the children. They are stunned into silence but then break into spontaneous applause.

"I don't know what it means, but it's important." says Megan.

"Wow, that's really good Fiona," says Janelle. There are murmurs of assent fiom the rest of the class.

Fiona pulls her narrow face into her turtleneck and tries not to reveal the smile that spreads across her face. She is embarrassed but pleased with the recognition.

The children do not question the meaning nor do they question the worth of the poem.

They receive it with an open spirit of awe and wonder. Tney hear her words as a giR But 127

I am not sure that the intent of its creation and inspiration was to make a gift. What makes something a gift? Is a gift different from a present?

There are various occasions in life when we enjoy and are expected to give something, a present. Weddings, birthdays, and Christmas all call for the giving of presents. Presents have a certain presence about them. Presentation is important when we give presents.

There is an element of surprise and secrecy. We decorate the package with special paper, ribbons, bows and the opening of the present is usually accompanied by a sense of ceremony.

Presents are important to the giver. At times, I fall into a fiantic flurry of activity through one shopping mall after another as I struggle to find the *perfectwpresent, the present that

I feel will convey my sentiments for the recipient and the occasion. Once in a while, I will settle for an object that is less-than-perfect with the consolation of the adage, "It's the thought that counts". AAer all, we all know that a present is only a symbol of our pod wishes and sentiments for the person.

Or is it? There is another side to the giving presents. Sometimes our intention in giving presents is less about the other person's satisfaction and more about what the present says about us. The present is a sign of the seK The present re-presents the self. It is a taogibIe sign of how we wish to be seen by the recipient. A present can also re-present how we fee1 about the recipient. It re-presents our valuing of the relationship. Thus, our intent in 128 giving a present is about how it will make us feel. Perhaps this is why we want to be present (or not) when the present is opened. Perhaps the present confrms feelings of adequacy and acceptance in us.

Gifts are different. There is an away- from-the-world-o f-things quality to them. Presents are given to us. Gifts have a quality of being offered and received. Their ability to present is dependent on the attentiveness of the recipient to recognize and receive it as a gift. A gift's presence is not given, it must be received.

My mother recently passed away after a six month battle with leukemia When she was first diagnosed and given only seven days to live, my reaction was one of outrage that life was being taken from her. The subsequent days, weeks and months unfolded in periods of hospitalization. chemotherapy and radiation. We rode waves of emotion that sometimes engulfed us. There were periods of great hope that slowly trickled away as the relentless disease attacked her body. But sadness did not threaten to consume us. We had moments of quiet joy and contentment, laughter about small things of little consequence. Even in the moments that followed her final drawing of breath my sister and 1 shared a sense of triumph that our mother had lived her death as she had lived her life. I came to see the terrible beauty of leukemia I regard it as a terrible gift.

I kept these thoughts private from many in the medical profession for they could only view the disease as the enemy. They cared more about leukemia than they cared for my mother. Likewise, some of my fiends were uncomfortable with my words. They were 129 puzzled and could not understand how leukemia could be a gift. But there were many who did understand that my mother's leukemia was a gift of living and dying well.

Understanding my mother's leukemia as a gift helped me understand that gifts must be received in order to be real-ized. The essential quality of a gift lies not in what is given but in the manner in which it is received. Gifts lacks intentionality, they simply present.

But the mode of presentation is such that gifts can only present to us if we recognize the potential of its being a gift. It is the recipient who makes the gift.

The recipient bestows qualities of "giftness" on the gift. The gift is valued. seen as special. perhaps given a place of honor. Here, the gift holds the potential to present itself again. Thus, "giftness" cannot be reduced to a single experience. "Gihess" is renewable, inexhaustible unless the "giftness" is Iost. If a gift is no longer cherished, it ceases to be a gift. It becomes empty, devoid of potential, devalued, uncared for, neglected, but not dead. Its "giftness" can be renewed as long as there is once again someone who can real-ize its "giftness'?.

Pedagogy as systematic methods of Ieaming and teaching leaves little potential for bbgifhess".A paradigm that bases pedagogy upon a given body of knowledge, has limited use for interpretation. Systematic teaching and learning is a scripted event where successfirl teaching is gauged by the students' correct response. This is the world of multipIe choice exams, rank orderings of children, spelling lists, mad minute basic facts 130 quizzes, and diagnostic reading tests, to name but a few. This is curriculum separated from Living, breathing sense making. It is the legacy of Cartesian thought.

Ifa gift is thought of as potentiality, if its mode of being, its givenness, is only red-ized by one who can recognize these hidden qualities, can a gift exist in a Cartesian paradigm of pedagogy? Can a gift exist if everything is already given? There is no method or instrument that allows us to identify "gifhess". Consequently there is no place for it in this sterile, antiseptic world of binary codes, right and wrong, outcomes and objectives that have been decided in advance.

But what of those who rally against the regime? What of those who regard learning in a different way? Unfortunately, in this paradigm, "giftnesst has no presence, no pre-sense.

In an in-sense-ible world. "giftness" can only be red-ized by one who is subsequently

Iabeled deviant,

Labeling deviance happens in subtle, often insidious ways. Students who exhibit deviant behavior cause a host of professionals to rally around them. Psychologists, behavior strategists, speech and language pathologists, resource teachers, pediatricians, administrators and teachers gather in an effort to "help" the child. We identify ourselves as members of caring professions who want to do what is best for the child. That is why we spend hours fdling out forms and contacting other agencies. Every now and then, someone will pull back with the question, "Have you talked to the child?". 131

This is a trick question. It speaks volumes in the word to, for taking ro locates the child in a particular way. Talking to allows us to identify deviance. Talking with is different.

Talking with implies a sense of back and forth. It allows for the possibility that we might catch a glimpse of ourselves in the child.

But this is an extreme example of deviance. Usually, deviance is not named and recognized as such. Instead, encounters with deviance cause unsettling feelings. We don't know how to respond. We shift uncomfortably, look to others for clues of how we should respond. Sometimes we make a joke of it, discount it with our shared laughter. At other times, deviance is tolerated with a quiet wish that if ignored it will go away. This kind of deviance often causes embarrassment and nervous laughter. Perhaps we recognize the possibility that that could be us. These events stick with us. We relive the discomfort of the confrontation. Sometimes we respond by re-member-ing its happening as a story that can later be shared over drinks.

Our responses to deviance are usually not intended to be cruel. They are a result of our confused state. We recognize that it is unsettling but we fail to see that deviance can be a gift, the gift to be otherw*se.

I sense that Fiona's poem is a giR. I want to red-ize its "gifiness" with others so I bring it forth to various colIeagues. I offer it forward with the questions, "How do I treat this?' 132 and "Is this good?" Mostly I want them to feel the same awe and wonder that I did. I want this feeling to be affirmed, for them to recognize something wonder-full.

One teacher responds by saying, "Man, what are you teaching these kids, Parker? What twisted stuff is going on in your class?"

Another says, "Well, she's the flower child. Don't you think she's like some chick out of the sixties?"

Only two colleagues respond with words from the heart. The capacity for speech Leaves them. All they can say is, "Wow."

This is the gasp of astonishment. The holding of breath that signifies wonder.

I wondered how it was that a poem could elicit such different responses. Now it comes to me. Perhaps deviance is the terrible beauty of wonder. Variation 24

The Power of Song: February 10,1999

Inuit Vignette

Northern lighfs, cold sky aglow Shining, shimmering Crystal silence. Arctic snow Sparkling, ggli~ening,breathing.

Ancient legends whisper [ow Humming, mr rrmtlring Inuit child in the snow Watching, wondering, waiting Praying. (Coglan, 1994.)

I have been singing since I could speak. That in itself might be contestable as it is conceivable that my fust sounds came closer to song than to speech. Musicians realize the primacy of the human voice. Even instrumentalist talk of singing through a phrase and of searching for the perfect instrument which is their voice. That is why Yo Yo Mah will book a plane seat for his cello and why oboe and bassoon players strive to master the art and craft of creating their own reeds. It's not dl about monetary value.

And it is not just the sound of the instrument which makes it your voice. It is the feel. It is the way it resonates as you play. The way the keys are weighted just so, so that they are both responsive and quick acting but deep. It is the way that the sound becomes you, 134 entering you.body so that you live and breathe each phrase. Good musicians know this.

Technicians do not., they merely play notes.

Glenn Gould sang whenever he played. On his recordings of The Goldberg Variations one can hear him humming even though the technicians attempted to eradicate his voice.

It is hard to be a technician when you sing. The music doesn't start with the sound, it starts with the breath. The life force of the song is the air. I open myself to the air and I hear the pitch in silence with my inner ear. This is not an audible tone, I just somehow know that it's there. The air vibrates through my vocal cords then I let it lift into my head where it resonates against all the surfaces of my face, then floats out my body only to be born back to it in the waves of sound which engulf me.

There are some children who do not know this about themselves and who sadly, will not allow themselves the chance to enter into a song. They sing with tight jaws and strained lips no matter how often we have swooped and played and talked and made sirens of our voices in an attempt to free them. They sit self consciously at the edges of our gathering place, and when we sing they look around to see if anyone has noticed their presence.

Their souls seem dark at these times and it saddens me that after only eight years on this earth they have given up on song. Some of these children are the children who prefer to express themselves through drawing. Not paint, sculpture, clay or other media but pencil and paper. There are no bold slashes of color or a seeking out of other ways of seeing. Perhaps it is the control which they enjoy.

Other children throw their bodies and souls into song. They sway, their bodies totally captivated by the rhythm of the music. Their arms sculpt wild figures in the air and their faces become the song.

It is these children who teach me something about singing that I didn't know before.

Something very important. We sing through An Inuit Vigneue and I can hear that their singing has taken some of them to a place that they didn't know about before. When we talk about it, we talk of how the spoken word is different from the sung, how the words

"Crys~aIsilence " change and expand when you sing them and how the word "breathing " is different when you stretch it out in the song.

That is when it strikes me. When we sing we breathe together. We do not breath in unison at any other time, but when we sing we take common rhythmic breaths. It is the only time in our lives when this happens. Even in utero, joined to the mother, the fetus does not take in air as a shared experience. That's why singing is so important That's why we sing at celebrations, at times of significance, in church. We breathe together. We parrake in the 136 common goodness of the air and transform it. I have never thought of singing in this way before.

We breathe together. Variation 25

Bridges :January 10,1999

I have had the most amazing four days though the week didn't start out that well. The children were quite noisy and unsettled on Monday, our first day back fiom Christmas vacation but it wasn't until Tuesday when they were calmer and more focused that I knew this. How much of what we know and recognize is done in hindsight? So much of what

I've learned comes only when I have something else to contrast it to. We need referents to make sense of things.

It was on Tuesday that we had our first big discussion of the new year. It started innocently enough. In fact, I hadn't planned to talk about what we discussed. I wanted a way into the Arctic Born the work that we have done with the past and community, all of which are topics in the grade three social studies curriculum. I thought that reading "~Mary oflblile 18 " by Ann Blades (1971) would do the trick. I wanted the children to consider how their lives wodd be different without electricity, water taps, television or telephones

- the same circumstances that Mary faces in the book. On a whim, I decided to ask the children what they could tell me about bridges because I intended to use the book as a bridge fiom the past to the Arctic.

What discussion ensued! There was Lots of talk about the physical structure of a bridge, how our lives would be limited if bridges did not exist in Calgary, how traffic is a problem because of bridges and how bridges don't have to be over the water. Craig also 138 told us about the huge bridge in San Francisco and we talked about train bridges, foot bridges and bicycle bridges.

Then Megan said, ''Mrs. Parker, you know there can be bridges between people too."

Janelle takes-thisup, "Yeah. There can be bridges that we can make. Like if someone gets hurt and the person says, 'Oh are you all right? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you'. Then the other person can say, 'Oh I'm OK. That's all right'. Then there's a bridge there and they can go on being friends."

Kari offers, "And it's like if someone is new, you can say, 'Do you want to play with me?' Then it's like there's a bridge between them."

I am excited by what I hear. I desperately want to keep this going, to hrther conversation but I'm never quite sure of what will be taken up. I'm working without a script. I say,

"Yes, it's sort of like if one person says something, then half of that bridge is built, and if the other person wants to, they can make the other half."

The discussion continues to bounce back and forth from the idea of bridges as a metaphor to the physicality of the bridge. 139

The idea recurs later in the week. When Richard refuses to read with his partner, Fiona says "Well your partner has made half of the bridge and you just don't want to f~shit."

This idea of an arc is Lovely. I think it holds richness for the future. Variation 26

Sarabandez7:January 1I, 1999

On the next day, Wednesday, I decide to read the picture book Stopping By Woo& on

Snowy Evening, an illustrated version of the poem by Robert Frost. The children listen

intently, but as I read I feel that I'm making a mistake. By going slowly so that they can

see the pictures in the book, I lose the rhythm and the lyricism of the words. The words

become pedantic and I feel their possibility slipping away with each page turn.

So 1 ask for a second chance. I tell the children how for years the poem was ruined for me

because I could only hear the words in exaggerated iambic pentameter, a lasting tribute to

my grade seven language arts teacher. I recite:

Whose woods these are I think I know His house is in the vil loge though

I tell the children that I don't want to make the same mistake with them and that I thought that by sharing the iIIustrated version with them, I was doing the right thing. But, I explain, in reading aloud with pauses so that they can take in the illustrations, 1can see that I've made a different kind of mistake. I've made the illustrations more important than the music of the poem. I ask them to listen again, but this time to listen for words that they like, even if they're not sure what they mean.

" A slow stately dance of the 17th and 18th centuries in triple meter with an emphasis on the second beat. Then I recite, almost by memory, and it is as though I am discovering the beauty of the

poem for myself. I linger over certain words:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep Bur I have promises to keep And miles to go before 1deep And miles to go before [sleep.

I have fallen in love with this poem all over again. If I allowed myself, I could bring

myself to tears.

There is a change. We have fallen into the music of the poem. I don't think that the children realize the depth of how the words have touched me. They do however, realize that this poem is special, that it is a gift of words, that there is something incomprehensible but lovely and beautiful about the words. This is more than a poem about someone who wants to get home for Christmas.

1ask them what sticks in their ears. Ianelle says the phrase 'downy flake'. Through the windows we can see thc sky lighten as the sun struggles to light the sky of this January morning. We can see that it holds the possibility of snow. Our gaze includes the poplar trees and willows that surround the soccer fields and the woods of Frost's poem take on a real character, becoming a place of familiarity.

Teya says, 'lovely, dark and deep'. We talk about this. It seems Like a mystery to the children, but not scary. They speak of an imaginary place, a magic spot. I wonder if it is the potential of unstated possibility that appeals to them. 142

Another child says that he liked 'miles to go before I sleep'. I ask them about this.

Someone says, "Well, he's a long way &om his family."

Someone else says, "He has to get home".

Then Sham speaks up. He says, "Well, it could be more than going to a place." Is it possible that he understands the symbolism? He continues, "Well, it's like he has to get way older and then ...he'll sleep. Except that maybe he dies".

There is a hush as the words flow over the children. It is as though the phrase has become three-dimensional, that it has grown in immensity, that it has become monstrous in proportions. The weight of Shaun's words sink into us.

For some of the children it is too much, some of them giggle and make light of the words, they turn it into a joke. Others consider his words carefblly. There is a light of understanding in their eyes and in their unconscious nods.

I feel a faint twinge of tension at this turn of events. We aren't supposed to tak about death in grade three. I didn't think this would come up. They were supposed to enjoy the pictures, listen to the words and think about the little horse and the farmhouse - not death and mortatity. And yet, this is a comfortable codiontation of death. It talks of "promises to keep and miIes to go before I sleep." I 43

Someone else pipes up that it is a 44cozy"poem. And she is right. It is a cozy poem, like a warm fleece blanket that envelopes us and smells of home. It speaks of a fire burning, of loved ones and a journey that is not lonely but purposell and directed - yet with the potential to be otherwise. It is our journey. Variation 27

Bridges :January 12,1999

Today, I read the book "Woo[fIslrntf' (Godkin, 1989) to the children It is a story about a family of wolves who because of a random accident, leave an island. Because the predators are no longer there, the balance of the island ecosystem is altered and the remaining animals struggle to survive.

Before I read the story, I tell the children that the story is about a group of wolves who leave their island home. I ask them what they think will happen. Some of the children say that the story will be about the Eeedom the animals left on the island will experience because they wiII not have to worry about being hunted by the wolves. A few children understand the fine balance that exists in an ecosystem and how this might be thrown off by a seemingly innocuous occurrence.

When I finish the book, there is the satisfying hush that means they have fallen under the story's spell. I ask what they have noticed. One girl asks why the wolves took so long to get back to the island. The other children explain that they weren't able to get over the water the first year because there was no bridge that they couid cross. The second winter was cold so that the wolves could return. 145

Ahhhh! Bridges. I was hoping that someone might see this. I ask if bridges are sometimes accidental or if they are always formed on purpose. Becky says that bridges can sometimes be accidental like the raft in the story. There is general agreement about this.

Wade is beginning to fidget. I see him begin to inch his way over to Mary.

Someone else is still wondering why the wolves didn't try to swim back to the island.

Another child tells them that the wolves probably didn't really know why there was no food for them. They didn't know that they were in a different place until it was too late.

My mind begins to spin in a different direction. I ask if it is possible for something to be a bridge without someone ever intending or planning for it to be a bridge.

"Yes," they answer, "like the raft in the story."

Could a story be a bridge?

Mary giggles and sticks her foot out to stop Wade kom advancing further. Megan tells both of them to quit disturbing her.

Craig is trying to get into the conversation. "The wolves didn't know to go back!" 146

Megan says, "Well this story is like a bridge. It's like your bridge keeps going - you make bridges, your kids make bridges. Like a picture you love."

I ask, "DO you mean that we can be bridges?"

I call on Fiona to speak. She is fixmated because she knows the noise emanating from the other children will prevent her soft voice From being heard. She stands and looks at the class. They stop and listen.

&Thereare little islands in a big huge square and you have to fill them up. Every little island is something you have to conquer."

JanelIe speaks, "We are pieces of the bridge and if someone doesn't do his part, the whole bridge falls down and it makes a new island - an island of silence."

She draws a picture to more graphically explain her thinking. On one side of the chalkboard she carellly makes a closed shape and explains that it is the isiand of learning. A hdf metre away she draws a similar shape and states that this is the island of learning. Under the second figure she draws yet a third smaller island shape and explains that this is the island of silence which is made when the bridge between the first two islands is destroyed. 147

Mark is looking puzzled and slightly worried. Shaun sits beside him with a similar expression. His brow is wrinkled. Wade is oblivious to the preceding conversation. He orients his body to wards the chalkboard while subtly inching sideways towards Mary.

"Wade stop it. Mary. move away from Wade."

As Janelle continues to speak I can see Wade beginning to creep towards lack. He has zeroed in on his next prey.

"Wade! Put your hands in your lap and your bottom flat on the floor. Now stay in one place"

Craig blurts in, "It's like the galaxy keeps going."

"That's life," fiom Suzanne.

"Mary, keep your hands to yourself. David, why don't you come move over to this spot beside me.... Can art or music be a bridge?"

Then Shaun says soffly, "It's tiom your heart to your soul."

I'm not sure that I've heard him correctly. "What?? 1 exclaim, "What did you say

Shaun?" &'Artis like a bridge from your heart to your soul."

There is silence. Only David fumbles his way to the spot beside me.

Shaun blushes.

I say, "Oh,Sha un... I think you've said something really important."

Megan says. "I don't know what it means but I think it's important too!

Suzanne says, "We need to write!"

There is general agreement. Becky, Fiona, JanelIe ... many of the children agree. We need

to write.

I repeat Sham's words. He is blushing and slightly embarrassed but proud at the same

time.

There is a flurry of activity as the children head for their desks. Wade and Jack poke each other and start a tag game. I intervene and tell them to get ready to write.

I head for Craig's desk to get him organized. 149

"Mrs. Parker," says one of the children, "You have to write too. Write it down in your

book, Write it down!"

There are cries of insistence fiom the other children that I must record what was said.

They expect me to make something of it. There is a general recognition that this is my

responsibility, so I too sit at my desk and write. I try to ignore the flurry of activity fiom

Craig's area as he digs through his desk for a pencil then heads for the pencil sharpener.

I begin to write field notes of what has just transpired. The recess bell rings.

"Mrs. Parker," says Megan as she struggles with layers of coat, scarf, hat, mitts, and

boots, "you have to read Shaun's poem. It's sooooo good."

I agree with Megan. Shaun's poem is "sooooo good".

Shaun's poem Bridges, follows. When Sham first showed it to me, it did not scan in the

form that it now appears nor was it typed. The first time the entire class encountered the poem was when I read it aloud to them after recess that same morning. They wanted to

see the poem in print and gathered around Shaun's desk in an effort to see his hand

scripted words. They grabbed his notebook out of each other's hands and recited the

words to themselves. I sometimes wonder if the children fust loved Shaun's poem not for the thoughts it offered but for the way the words rolled off of their tongues. I50

Shaun wanted to have his notebook back but other children still wanted to read his poem so I reprinted Shaun's words on a a large piece of chart paper. Then with Shaun's permission, the class experimented with the line breaks. The children insisted that I type the poem. I think that they were curious to see if removing Shaun's or my own printing wodd change the character of what was said.

Typing did change the poem, but not in a way that we unheard the poem. It gave the poem more weight. It no longer breathed only with Shaun's breath but with the strength of all of us. Because we had read and worked on the poem together, it belonged to us in a different way. Each time we read it we breathed it again. We listened to the living rhythm of its words and felt the resonance of all past readings, thoughts and re-member-ances.

The language is Shaun's but the poem belongs to all who listen. Bridges

Since you were born You have been making bridges From your heart to your soul With courage and strength And friendship And time.

Enemies too.

When you're done living That bridge will be finished

Shaun January 12 Variation 28

Poems from the Crassroom

The following poems were created by some of the children during the weeks which followed our discussion about bridges and the playful work we did with Sham's poem.

Some of the following were written during periods of time devoted to writing. None of the writing periods were specifically devoted to the writing of poetry. I never introduced the time as "Please take out your writing notebooks and write a poem. You have twenty minutes." Indeed, I never taught a 'poetry unit" for I had had disappointing experiences with such units in the past. Purposefully teaching poetry seemed to result in stilted language, awkward rhyme schemes and phrases that didn't make sense.

Instead, these poems seemed to grow out of a desire by the children to express their deepest thoughts, beautifully. The topics speak of things close to their hearts - friendship, life, and truth. They allude to death, the great referent for life, the act of which gives meaning to life.

Other poems were scrawled during moments that might be considered the empty moments of the classroom, transition time when the children were taking off coats or waiting for announcements to be made. StilI others were presented to me with 153 explanations that the poet had had an inspiration while waiting for her sister at the orthodontist or a thought had come to the poet at daycare.

One poem led to another, and the writing of one child seemed to trigger thoughts in the other children. It was clear that they listened to each other. There were many other poems but I have cdled forth the voices that seem most relevant to this work.

The poems appear in typed form and the spelling has been corrected. Other than these changes, the poems are as the children wrote them. The white spaces are theirs. Friendship

Friendship is a bridge

A rainbow between two hearts,

A way to unlock happiness,

A way to show who you are.

Jeremy January 29,1999 What is Life?

Life is a dream, A thought that keeps on going, A picture that is never finished.

Life is a story.

Jeremy January 29, 1999 Truth

Truth is a bright

star.

The truth floats inside

of you.

When you tell lies the truth is killed with an arrow.

Suzanne February 2, 1999 Life

Life is like a dream it ends and you can only remember part of it. life is worth living for that beautiful day that you will only see once for then your life is over.

Suzanne January 28, 1999 Key to Life

The key, you will find, is in your soul.

The key

To find

is in your mind.

Life is the Iake

and you

are the

And*.. once you unlock the lock to life a new beginning comes .....

Fiona January 27, 1999 Variation 29

Con Sordino'': :March 8,1999

My class is at Arts Centre Scho~l'~.We are piloting this program and ours is the third class that the Arts Centre has "processed". I have come to the realization that we are very different from the other classes that have been here and have been told by the coordinator that I am -differentykom the other teachers who have been here.

This was brought home to me on our fmt day. My class is accompanied by six high school students from the Alternative High Schoolzo.They are here to help supervise the children both in the activities that have been scheduled and during the Lunch hour when they play with the children and skate with them on the rink outside of the Centre. The other schools which attended Arts Centre School did not use high school volunteers.

What remains unspoken is that they did not use high school volunteers from the

Alternative High School. The other schools did not have volunteers who sported various body piercing, black lipstick, and hair a color not to be found in nature.

28 A musical term pertaining to the playing of instruments. It means, "with mute".

Arts Centre School is a special week long program whereby individual classes of children spend an entire week at the Calgary Centre for the Performing Ms. Arts Centre School was created with the hope that children would have an opportunity to gain an understanding of the workings of the Centre, the fine arts, and curricular concepts through the unique experiences and individuals offered by the locale.

The Alternative High School (AHS) serves a population whom for one reason or another has chosen to forego the programs offered by their designated schooIs. AHS operates within boundaries democraticdy agreed upon by those affiliated with it. 160

The first day passes in a whirlwind of one activity after another. We barely have a chance to catch our breath before we are off touring a different theater in the complex where various staff of the Arts Centre talk at us. Finally, at the end of the day we have a five minute question and answer period with a lighting director. He takes questions from the class, the high school students, the adult volunteers and me. Some of his answers to the children are a bit flippant. I find this mildly annoying but the children accept his answers innocently. I think that he means to be hmyand that he means no harm but it bothers me that a hint of sarcasm and condescension tint his words.

Leaving the Arts Centre is a exercise of thirty bodies digging for backpacks and personal belongings that are unearthed fiom a massive pile of coats, hats, mittens, lunch bags, journals, skates and heImets in an area smaller than my kitchen. Then we trundle down a hallway to a small reception area where we wait patiently for a single, manned elevator to take us to the main floor ten at a time. All this while, the children have been told that they

"must not make a single sound or Annette (the receptionist) will not be able to talk on the phone."

The children are gathered around their high school buddies. There is already a strong bond that has formed between them. I can tell that a few of the girls have mad crushes on

Patrick and Ryan, the male high school students. Teya holds onto Patrick's hand and

Becky and Ali stand close to Ryan. Both of them are too shy to take his hand, but they are deliberately separate from the girls they usually play with. 161

I arrive on the main floor with the last group. I am told that there is a problem. There was noise in the reception area! It is apparent to me that my interpretation of acceptable silence from eight year olds is different than what is expected £iom the Centre. Before leaving, the children are rated on a scale of one to ten for how well they did while waiting for the area. They rate an "eight" but are told that everyone is confident that they will em a "ten" by the end of the week.

1 sigh. I thought that my class behaved in a stellar fashion. I'm womed by the expectations these adults have of the children. I doubt that a large group of adults would wait as compliantly if they knew each other as well as the children know each other. I thought my class showed remarkable self control.

There is a flurry of hugs, high fives and various good-byes said to the high school students. David leaps on Ryan's back and is piggy backed to the waiting school bus. Not to be outdone, Craig does the same to Patrick. As the bus pulls out into traffic, there are good-byes shouted through windows, kisses blown and various gestures of affection made. Then the children settle back for the long ride back to school. Some of them dig in their packs for a snack. It has been three hours since lunch and they are starving. Jeremy,

Craig, Jack and Mark huddle around a Gameboy. Ianelle and Kari start to sing. Mary is beside me. She has dark circles around her eyes. I open her pudding for her, she takes a few spoo~sthen packs it away and says, "Will you wake me up when we get back to 162 school?" Then she huddles into the hood of her jacket, leans against the window of the bus and goes to sleep amid the noise of the bus.

We are late getting back. 1 dash out of the bus, keys ready and jog to the classroom. The children follow and scramble to change shoes. pick up notices and meet siblings. I'm worried that the children who are bused to school will miss their bus and I can't face driving them home myself. I keep up a constant patter of, "Let's go! Come on Shaun!

Hurry up! Let's move ! Lettshustle! Let's go!" I feel like a cheerleader.

Finally, the classroom is empty. I have a headache. Pm late for a staff meeting. The phone rings. It is the coordinator of Arts Centre School.

"I was just wondering how you thought today went?"

I know I have to get to the meeting and I don't have time to chat so I just say, "I'm pleased with how things went today."

She says, "So am I. But I just have one little concern that I already talked to the high school students about."

Oh, oh. What happened? Is there something that 1 missed? She goes on, 163

"I spoke to them because I was concerned about what happened in question period. I just wanted to make clear to them that this week is for your class and that they have to be aware that the question period is for the grade threes."

I'm taken aback by this. 1 can hardly breathe. I am getting angry as she goes on to say that the Centre really wants the experience to be for the younger kids so she taiked to the high school students once we left and explained what she expected of them. She expects them to be silent.

I find my voice. "I have a problem with that."

"Oh?"

"I'm thinking that the experience should belong to everyone. I'm a teacher, and sure this is my class but learning should be for everyone. And the questions that the older kids ask help make the experience bigger for the younger ones. Those questions open things up, the older kids consider things that the littie ones don't unless its brought to their attention."

"Oh. 1see." 164

But that's the problem! She sees but she doesn't Listen. Her eyes and vision locate the other in a particular way. She places the chiidren before her as objects, as empty vessels to be filled. That's why she can make these kinds of statements. When we locate others as objects instead of beings, we lose a living, breathing connection. We can treat them in ways that close them down, they become speechless, songless vessels.

The coordinator has forgotten that we share air, the breathable space between us. She doesn't understand that learning happens when you open up the space of conversation.

Conversation is about entering a shared space. It is about betweenness, re-membering air as a place of shared vibrations in the breathable space between us.

Question and answer periods make us forget that sound exists through a breathable space.

They position us into expert and non-expert. teacher and student, subject and object. The goal of the question and answer period becomes one of efficiently dispensing answers so that the next question may be asked then quickly dealt with. Question and answer periods shut us down. The period ends when there are no more questions left to be asked or when the time allocated is used up. Question and answer periods leave little space for wondering or musing. They conserve air.

Conversation dwells in the space of wondering and musing. Conversation seeks to avoid the space of the question and answer period. Conversation doesn't have an expert who espouses and non-experts who take in. It has a oneness to it, an unfolding and evolving 165 character, a sharing of air. We have to listen in order to have a conversation. We hear the breathing of the other person. We feel the weight of their words, the timbre of their voice.

Their voice is inscribed into our memories so that even a single "Hello?" on the other end of a telephone line is sufficient for us to identify the person. In conversation with another we get caught by the interruptions to their breath and hold our breath in the hesitations and the silences of the other. We hear echoes of the past and the future in the resonance of the present.

Conversation is about making meaning, a shared understanding. Conversation is not about telling, it's about learning. Conversation is not about seeing, it's about listening. In conversation, there is no subject telling an object. Conversation exists in a space of in-betweenness between subjects, the way that sound waves exist for all who have ears.

That is kind of space that I look for. That is the space of learning.

But on this March afternoon as I feel the pressure of time and the htility of the situation, we don't have a conversation. We politely mutter some details about tomorrow then bid each other a pleasant evening. She is surprised that I have a meeting to go to then journals to respond to.

What does she think teachers do? Variation 30

Sounds of Silence (with apologies to Paul Simon): March 12,1998

It is Friday, our last day at Arts Centre School. The novelty of riding up the elevators has begun to wear off. We greet our high school buddies at the base of the elevators and wait patiently as the "office people", the adults who work at the Arts Centre fill the elevator and the operator repeatedly tells us that "I'll be back for you in a minute." Several carloads of adults proceed ahead of our class. The high school students and I feel a slight prickles of annoyance at this and we exchange looks that say "Aren't we citizens, too?", but the children wait patiently, talking in quiet tones of what they have for lunch, making plans for the skating time and shifting their heavy packs from one hand to another.

Finally we are in the classroom/boardroom and coats, packs, skates and other detritus are piled onto the altogether inadequate coat rack. It threatens to tip over with the weight of responsibility handed it. I know that feeling.

The children gather around the chair where I usually sit to explain how the day will be structured. I pick my way through their cross legged bodies, tip toeing between them and trying to anticipate their movement so that 1don't inadvertently step on anyone. AIong the way, several hands reach out to feel the texture of the velveteen pants that I am wearing.

Craig strokes a Ieg and sighs, "Nice.. .". When I finally sit, he leans up against me, his face pressed into my knee. 167

The high school students sit in chairs at a table behind the children. They have stymfoam cups of coffee and they seem quieter than usual this morning. One of them is missing but

I expect that he will turn up in a moment. He's probably having a last minute cigarette.

We have developed a code. I tell the older kids that they can take a "sunshine break" when it appears that they need to up their nicotine levels. I would redly like to encourage them not to smoke but I don't think my words would have an effect on them. (In the end, on the find journal response that I write to them, I can't resist - I have to tell them that I really wish that they would stop. I can't help rnyselt) The older kids seem tired. They yawn and sip their coffee. They told me earlier in the week that they never imagined that working with kids was so much work. One girl said, "I have such respect for teachers...".

My response in my head was ,"YES!"

I start singing an Inuit chant that we know.

Chayunga a sin umgaa sin. Chayunga a sin uwanga a nalzntit Chayunga a sin, Uwanga a sin.

The children stop their chatter and enter into the song. As we repeat without stopping,

JanelIe, Richard and Kari sway to the music. Jack and Suzanne start to tap their thighs, imitating a drum. My drum is on the shelf impossibly far away from me. I never seem to have the right accompaniments at the moments when I should. But it doesn't matter to the children- 168

They've all entered into the song so I begin to sing some of the favorites that we've learned this year and they join in. We've hardly sung this week. This is a bit ironic when one considers that we are at the Arts Centre.

After three songs. I begin to speak. We talk for a bit about what we did yesterday and how this is our fmal day at the Centre. 1 explain that today will be a bit different because today there will not be any presentations by the Centre staff Instead, we will be spending time as a class with me their teacher. I had expected that perhaps the children might be view this as anticlimactic, but instead, they cheer! I feel a bit smug about this but then 1 tell myself that I shouldn't gloat over this, the whole week has been wondefil in terms of things that we have seen and heard.

We proceed to a public hallway where there is a large mddepicting various scenes from the arts through time. It is a rich tapestry ranging from Greek theater, cave art,

Kabuki theater, a depiction of an audition, conductors, instruments, to characters fiom

Broadway musicals. The Arts Centre coordinator is with us. She has a wealth of background information about each section of the mural as well as insider knowledge about the actual process of painting the work. She is eager to share where the artist made a "mistake", when it was painted and who the various characters are.

I want the children to have a different kind of experience, not a being-talked-to experience but one that is more tactile, more textured. And I am the teacher so I hijack 169 the lesson away fiom her. I ask the children to find one part of the mural that appeals to them. I ask them to draw it on the art paper that I have provided for them. I ask them to think as they are drawing, to wonder about what the drawing means and why might it be in such a public space. I tell them that later, if they want, they can ask the coordinator for her story about the drawing.

"But," I emphasize, "the important thing is that you draw and wonder so that you'll have a way of hanging on to what this week has been about and what it means to you."

The children are eager to draw. They love the way their pencils feel against the graininess of the art paper that we have. They sprawl over the hallway, some sitting cross legged, some leaning against the wall and some lying on their tummies. A couple of boys are lying on their backs and I wonder if they are really engaged in the task so I wander over. I am mildly surprised to find that they are. They just want to look at this section of the mural from a different perspective, draw it this way then draw it from a sitting position.

There is interesting talk amongst the children. Several notice that the mural spans different time periods and there does not appear to be any sequential order to how things have been depicted. Others notice that the &st uses certain families of color to create mood and changes in Iight Still others speculate on why the artist would choose to depict a certain scene. They wonder what it means. 170

The children are so involved that I am able to sit and sketch as well. I sit by Mary and quietly sketch. She is excited, "Look, Mrs. Parker! I think that this is the best drawing that I've ever done!" I agree that she has really done a wonderfid thing and we sit in contented silence and sketch another scene.

There is a change to the quality of the sound. I am aware that it feels as though we need to do something as a group so I call everyone together and ask what they have noticed about the mural. Now the coordinator is able to share some of the information related to the questions and wanderings that the children have. Megan has noticed something, she wonders why there isn't much writing on the mural. As a matter of fact, the only words that appear are, "Be silent that you might hear".

The coordinator starts to explain why there is a lack of text but I interrupt. "What do you think that means?" I ask. I am quite taken by this quote. I think that it is a metaphor worth exploring.

Kari says, "Well maybe it means you shouldn't talk all the time, that you listen to the teacher." A few children agree with her comment

I wonder out loud if it might mean something to do with taking time to notice things. 171

Megan agrees, 4 think that it's like if you are just still, that you might hear something that you didn't hear before."

Suzanne raises her hand. "Well it could be that if we are really, really quiet. we might notice that someone isn't saying something. Like someone could be shy or they might be feeling bad and so if you're quiet you can notice those sorts of things."

We all seem to agree that the idea deserves to be explored fbrther but that we need some time to think about it. I remind them that a musician that we met earlier in the week told us that good music always begins and ends in silence. I wondered if they might think about that for a bit.

Another child puts up his hand to say that he has noticed something else on the mural and

I let the coordinator take his questions. I notice that one of the high school students seems lost in thought. She is staring at the quote with an expression on her face that seems to reveal genuine consideration of what the quote might hold.

But the coordinator announces that we are running behind schedde and that we have to get moving as we are booked into a theater space only until noon and that time is running out We huny back to the classroom/boardroom for a snack. Variation 3 1

Enchantment: Later that morning

We are in a theater space, having quickly finished our snack and 'sunshine break'. Up until today, the theater has not had chairs in it, it has been a large open space where we have been able to work with a musician and a dancer. I wanted to use this space on our find morning to try to put together an Inuit legend that the children are familiar with,

"The Enchanted Caribou " (Cleaver, 1985). 1 thought that we could build an enactment of the legend together, using some of the ideas that we've explored during this week. My thought is that performing in a professional space will be special for the children and they will feel differently about the story having played it in this space instead of our classroom.

But things are working against me! I realized on the trek through the complex that I have forgotten my CD of First Nations music. It is back in the classroom space which is now locked. I won't have the music that I wanted to use to create the mood of the story. As well, when we enter the theater, we rind that chairs have been set up and they are not the kind that can be easily dismantled. The only open space is the rather tiny stage.

To make things worse, we are running out of time. We only have the space until noon and so many of the preliminary activities that I had planned to draw the children into the play have to be scrapped. However, they are keen to create something so I quickly give a quick review of the sequence of things in the play and we map out areas on the stage so that we i73

are aware of the physical location of where different parts of the story will occur. On a

whim, I ask the high school students if they would like to play dong with us. Three of the

girls agree, the one remaining boy seems to ignore my question so I don't pursue it.

The girls have never read or heard the story before. I tell them that it's O.K.. I will tell the

story and if they listen, they'll know what to do. I talk to the whole class and say that we

don't really know what will happen but that if we dl listen to each other we'll work out a

way of doing the play. We agree that the formation that will best work for the space is if

we sit in a circle. We assign the main characters to the high school buddies then decide

who in the class will play various parts. Quickly, groups of chiidren volunteer for

positions as I call out the parts that will need to be acted. We agree on who will play the

fog, caribou, brothers, sisters, shamans as well as the main characters that the high school

students will play. We also decide that as we don't know the story that well and because the high schooI buddies are improvising that things will work best if I do the talking

rather than having characters speak formal lines. Actually we don't decide on this together. I make an executive decision and just tell everyone and they accept this.

I'm a bit nervous that there are observers in the theater. The high school fellow who isn't taking part, the coordinator, and parent volunteers are watching. I would prefer that this be a participatory type of event. I think that it is because I am threatened by what might or might not transpire. I generally prefer that attempts that are so unpredictable happen with 174 only those participating. An audience changes the dynamics. However, sometimes one just needs to make a leap of faith and hope that if one crashes, the others will understand.

I remind the children of the words we considered earlier: Be silent that yozc might hear.

They sit quietly in their circle and 1 force myself to find a calm and dream like quality to my voice. I start with the Magic Words that precede the story.

Magic Words

In the very earliest time, when both people and animals lived on earth. a person coztld become an animal if he wanted to and an animal could become a human being. Sometimes they were people and sometimes animals and there was no dzrerence. All spoke the same language. That was the time when words were like magic. The human mind had mysteriotrs powers. A word spoken by chance might have strange consequences. It would suddenly come alive and what people wanted to happen could happen- all you had to do was say it. Nobody could explain this; Thar 's the way it was.

Then I speak the opening words of the story,

In the very earliest time,far mvay in a settlement by u northern lake, there lived a young woman called T'She loved to wderalone collectingpieces of dnyiood and caribou antlers to make dollsfor children.

The high school student, Melissa enters fiom the side wings and wanders in the middle of the circle where the children sit She stoops among them as if picking up bits of shell. Her 175 whole manner of being is changed. She is no longer from our time but a young Inuit woman exploring the tundra.

As she walked she sang to herselfand watched the gullsflap their wings in the clear air. Some of the children make the sound of wind blowing over the tundra and Janelle adds the sound of gulls cawing in the air. We explore this soundscape for a few seconds then I motion as a conductor and pull the sound down and into silence.

One day Tjya had wandered a long wayfi;orn home when a heavy fog descended and she could see nothing in fiont of her.

Slowly, the children who are the fog gracefully stand and begin to weave a slow dance in and out of the circle. I sense that it is time to play my recorder so I improvise long tones and strange intervals on my alto recorder. I can feel the air vibrating through the wood as

I play. The children swirl and dip, circle and sway, their bodies undulating to the hypnotic sound of the recorder. As I begin to soften my tones, they drift down to the ground and stay still.

The other high school student enters as Etosack, the man who fd1s in love with Tyya.

Tyyafollowed Etosack to his house, a summer tent made of caribou hides.

We haven't planned this, but Janelle stands and motions to the child beside her to stand as well. About six of them stand, raise their arms above their heads then lean forwards to give the illusion of tent wds. I am amazed that they do this in silence, pIaying their idea out with one another. Tyya and Etosack make their way to the tent then are joined by the children who are playing the parts of Etosack's brother and sister. They mime the words

that I speak.

They were hunters of caribou that roamed the tundra beyond the lake. Befoe iying down to sleep theyper$iormed a ceremonial dance to bring them success in the morning 's hunt. First they put on caribou masks, and coats and boots oojcribou skin. Khen to make music for their dunce, one of them got out his caribou-skin dnfmand started beating on it. While the brothers danced around the fire, their shadows flickering against the wall of their tent, they chanted a magic hunting song:

I begin a beat on my drum and we sing first an [nuit weather chant then a hunting poem

which we have made into a chant:

Chqyunga a sin uwanga a sin Chaylrnga a sin usanga naluvit Chayunga a sin Uwanga a sin

Caribou-bou-bou Put your footprints on this land- This land I'm standing on is rich with the plant foodyou love. See. I'm holding in my hand the reindeer moss you're dreaming of- so delicious, yum, yum, yurn- Come caribou, come

As they sing, all of the children begin to mime the actions. They begin to stand and find the rhythm of the drum in their bodies. They pulse with the beat and move from their

places. I77

I quicken the tempo ofthe beat and they react with increased movement, spinning, dancing, and singing. The actions and sounds grow wilder and wilder. We are lost in the beat and sound of their chanting voices. Their actions are ritualistic. Richard swings his head from side to side, his thick hair moving rhythmically with the beat. Shaun has his hands beside his head, palms out and fingers spread to depict antlers. Mark is on all fours, pawing the ground with first one hand then the other. Craig and Wade leap about like the flames of a fue. A part of me is fifghtened by this. It's too much like "Lord of the Flies " but it is also satisfying to join in this primal ritual. I bring the drum to final thumping cacophony with no predictable beat, play a wild rhythm and stop with a final crash.

Theyfill to the ground exhausted!

The children fall in a heap. Some giggle but then are quiet. They relax in those positions as I resume the story.

We have entered a dreamlike state, an enchanted space, and we have entered it together.

We continue to play out the story, the children improvising as it unfolds. Not once do I leave the voice of the storyteller, not once do I have to remind anyone of behavioral expectations. We read each other. Simple gestures are noticed and expanded upon. The initiative taken by one is taken by others to create new places. A small gesture of mine sets a new space to be acted in.

And ever since, when hunters meet a white cm3ou they treat it kindly and do not kill it, for it might be enchanted 1 set a beat on my drum and begin to sing the hunting chant that we sang earlier. The

children join in but instead of ending with the wildness of the earlier dance I repeat the

fist part of the chant to end.

Chqunga a sin Uwanga a sin.

There is silence. There is nothing to say. We look at one another in astonishment at what

we have done. Still we do not speak. Then From the audience, the audience that we had

forgotten, comes the sound of one person clapping. This is joined by others.

It breaks the spell.

"That was great!" I say. Inadequate words to describe the unspeakable. The children begin to chatter in excited voices. I catch snippets of conversations, sound bites that release the tension we've been through.

"Did you see how high I jumped, like it was over a fire?"

"I thought it was weird how ..."

"That dead grandmother part was cool!"

"Did you see Craig, how he ...." I try to gain a modicum of control. "Thank you to the high school buddies for helping us out. You really made us believe." More inadequate words, but there is nothing to say except, "A1 right, let's get our things together because we're out of time and we have to go for lunch. It's our final time to skate together."

There is a fluny of movement as the children push and shove to be first into the classroom.

My friend Dorothy comes forward. She has been volunteering all week. She is a retired teacher. We look at each other and say together, "Wow!" Variation 32

"Be silent that you might hear."32

Sometimes the Fragment of a melody will haunt me. It might be a hgment of theme from a Brahms piano quartet. a drum riff, a sequence of notes played on a bass, a madrigal previously sung, or a phrase of music by Barry Manilow. There is no accounting for taste

in what seems to come forth. After all, there is a world of difference between Brahms and

Barry Manilow. I don't even like Barry Manilow.

Sometimes words will haunt me in the same way save for one important difference. The words that "stick in my ears" stay with me because I am intrigued by them. Such is the case with the words that open this movement, the words found on the mural at the Arts Centre. I had walked by the mural countless times but it was only when our class sat in front of the mural to look and sketch that I noticed them. They entered my consciousness and have remained with me since. They haunt me.

"Be silent that you might hear."

------

31 A musical term meaning the section that ends a musicd work

3' These were the words taken up by the class during Arts Centre SchooI. The quote was referred to in Variations 30 and 3 I. 181

In order to understand silence we must uncover the nature of sound. Sound is vibration.

Sound is born when an action causes vibrations. The action can be forcew as when a dmis struck, or it can be as gentle as the caress of silk against skin. Either action causes molecules to begin vibrating. The air around the action begins to vibrate and the vibrations travel in waves around the object that fust generated the movement. Sound waves cannot be generated in a vacuum. No matter how compelling the initial action, vibrations cannot form, silence results. Likewise, life cannot be supported in a vacuum.

In order to live we need to breathe. A vacuum is devoid of air, empty, lifeless, dead.

There is no movement, nothing to sense, nothing to feel. It has had the breath sucked out of it.

Curriculum seen as a body of isolated facts has had the breath sucked out of it. No matter how compelling the intent of its creation. it cannot be sustained for it is a lifeless form. It has no resonance, no connections, no movement or change. But its character of absence makes it clean, tidy, and antiseptic. Conditions contrary to its tidy existence are easily identified and eliminated. There is no messiness to learning when curriculum is removed fiom its supporting air, things either are or they aren't. One measures up or one does not.

This is the world of lists and flow charts. It is a world where poetry is a unit covering rhyme scheme, meter. and prescribed forms. It is a world where science is a procedure, where experiments are judged inadequate when they don't produce the right results. [n these cIassroorns the world is consumable, re-presented as Lists of renewable and 182 non-renewable resources. Children are re-presented in broad categories as achievers and non-achievers then in ever fmer gradations of difference as positions on a bell curve, stanines, and percentile rankings. Curriculum removed fkom the breathing space of air is devoid of sensation and texture. It is in-sense-ible, an an-aesthetic space.

"Be silent that you might hear."

To "be silent" denotes a living silence. The emphasis on be implies a sense of agency and intentionality. It is not the command of "be silent'', it is a spiritual call. To "be silent" moves silence from the anaesthetic world of paralysis and loss to a living breathing world of choice and possibility. It removes silence from an exterior landscape of totalitarian regimes where sanctions and commands have directed order to an interior landscape which covets and reveres silence. To "be silent" is to assume the spiritual, self-imposed silence of some monks. It has qualities of tranquillity and stillness. valued for what might be revealed in this sacred space. It is a place of worship, a place where one's senses have been attuned to the music of life. An aesthetic place.

A living breathing cumculurn allows for and seeks the silence of stillness. It recognizes silence in the holding of breath as one gasps in astonishment, but knows that the breath is only momentarily withheld. Its temporary absence alerts us to our existence as living breathing beings. In here, silence is not the absence of air. Instead, it attunes our senses 183 to our need for air, our need to share this breathing space together. Silence heightens our senses. The silence of attunement is an aesthetic space.

"Be silent that you might hear."

"Might" speaks of a sense of natality, a sense of what might be. But there are no guarantees that we will hear, no pre-determined ends or outcomes, no foregone conclusions. In "might", we open the possibility to be otherwise. In "might" we open the possibility to be with others differently. In "might" we have the potential to be reborn.

There is strength in "might".

"Be silent that you might hear."

To hear is to feel sound as vibrations of air, the breath between us. Air returns hearing to an embodied act connecting both animate and inanimate beings. Hearing is a bridge fiom that which is without to that which is within. Hearing is not the sole possession of the one uttering the sound, nor can it be limited to one receptor. We cannot will our ears to close.

We cannot choose to un-hear.

To be in the worId aesthetically is to real-ize the world as a sense-a-ble place, a living, breathing pIace. But to be in the world aesthetically is more than a deluge of sensation. To be in the world aesthetically is to take these bodily perceptions and interpret them into something we call our own. It is a space of being and becoming, a bridging of what has been, what is and what will be. To be in the world aesthetically is to know that,

Since you were born You have been making bridges From your heart to your soul With courage and strength And Friendship And time.

Enemies too.

When you're done living That bridge will be finished

("Bridges" by Shaun, Variation 27, p 13 1.)

Shaun wrote that the bridge is "fkom your heart to your soul". He knows, at the age of eight, that the soul is connected to a beating, pumping, living, bodied existence - the heart. ShaunTswords imply that the soul is not a vague construct existing outside of the body. One's soul has a quality of mine-ness. To lose this connection to the body is to lose the very mine-ness which characterizes the soul. To Lose the mine-ness is to destroy the soul and the possibility of aesthetic space. The soul is the body. Aesthetic space lives in the sensing body. In the Primacy of Perception, Merleau-Ponty (1964) speaks of how the soul knows the space of its own body.

...it is the pIace of the body the soul calls "mineT', a place the soul inhabits. The body it animates is not, for it, an object among objects, and it does not derive fiom the body all the rest of the space as an implied premise. The soul thinks with reference to the body, not with reference to itseIf, and space, or exterior distance, is stipulated as well within the natural pact that unites them ...For the soul is both natal space and matrix of every other existing space. @. 176) 185

Who would have thought that in a classroom of eight year olds, the ideas inherent in

Merleau- Ponty would emerge? When I first read Shaun's poem, I wondered if 1 should suggest changes to his text. I wondered if what he should have said is with your heart and your soul. But I let his words stand and now I am able to hear his words. I have learned to listen to retum hearing to an embodied act. When Shaun writes "from your heart to your soul", he is attuned to "the soul thinks with reference to the body" (Merleau-Ponty, 1964,

176). Now, I understand that the heart in Shaun's poem alludes to the body being the place one's soul inhabits. We do not have a soul separate from our body, from our perception. In Shaun's words, "Since you were born", is the same sense of natality that

Merleau-Ponty speaks of.

How is it that this "natal space and matrix of every other existing space" (Merleau-Ponty,

1964, 176) comes into existence? Is it aesthetic space? Where does it live in an elementary classroom? What is the "bridge" that that makes the space? Where is the space of the soul in my classroom?

These spaces are the space of in-betweenness. They come into existence when one takes care to open the world with children. They are the space of questions that seek to open a didogue. These are the spaces of hearing both silence and sound. They are the spaces of ammement. They are the space of seeing beyond what is immediately given. They live in the face of the Other when we recognize ourselves. They are sensing spaces, breathable spaces that connect us in the way that my breath expels and becomes a part of yours. To 186 deny that these spaces exist disconnects us. It removes the humanity from us. It denies us a place in the world. It removes us from a sense-able world of relations. We become anaesthetized.

When I first began this work with these children, I thought that vision and art would constitute the predominant metaphors of an aesthetic classroom. I wanted to re-vise and en-vision my practice in different ways. I sought examples of practice which honored different ways of knowing. 1did not realize that what would change was not so much the way that my practice looked, but the way 1 would see, hear, and sense meaning.

Leaming/teaching is more than knowing. It is also the space of not knowing.

Indeed, vision seemed to get in the way. The great discussions that I had envisioned never took place when 1 went looking for them. I had entertained visions of children marveling over the stark beauty of the prairie on Nose Hill Park, or sitting enrapt over the beautifbi illustrations of a picture book. I had visions of children fashioning wire sculptures of sunflowers and thereby constructing their knowledge of such things in the way one might assembIe a model fiom building blocks. These occurrences had the appearance of learning and teaching but in actuality, I felt that I was playing a role in a drama I had scripted for us. When these moments did not play out the way I hoped for, I was quick to accept or lay blame, "If only I was a better teacher", or "This would not have happened if

I had that class instead". or "Ifonly I had more time9'. 187

The problem was before my eyes. Rather, the problem was my eyes. My way of seeing was such that it placed me as the subject with the power of a gaze that could situate the other in a particular way, whether it was the students, a parent, a painting, or an experience. The gaze allowed me to rank the children into categories of achievers and non-achievers. readers and nonreaders, gifted and developmentally disadvantaged, and a myriad of other dichotomies. But where in this set of dichotomies was there a space for

Fiona, the poet who scored below grade level on diagnostic reading tests? Where was there space for Wade, whose paintings compelled one to linger over them but who scored less than the probability of chance on the grade three provincial achievement tests?

The quality of teaching/leaming has so often been measured by scores on diagnostic tests and provincial achievement tests. Test results, stanines. percentiles, placements on grids and other such gradings are favored for their objectivity. The quest for objectivity has been very successll for viewing learning through this lens reduces learning to mastery of skills and Iists of facts.

But objectivity has forgotten that it was born of a living, breathing, sensing soul. It cannot re-call the voice from whence it came. It has lost its sense of belonging, of relationship and as such, a sense of morality is missing from objectivity. It has lost its subject(ivity) by fixing its gaze on the subject to the extent that it becomes an object. Curriculum is turned into an object. The child is turned into an object. Objectivity refuses to see the child as a sense-able breathing being. 188

Objectivity measures deficits, it pathologizes learning. Objectivity sees Fiona as deficient in her reading skills. It does not hear the wisdom of her words, "The. key, you will find, is in your soul." ("Key to Life", poem by Fiona, Variation 28, p. 138) or "It is the death of the eye But the mind's eye floats on and on." ("Over the Hills", poem by Fiona, Variation

23, p. 1 1 1). Objectivity sees the child through a specific lens. Objectivity is blinkered to the richly textured drawings that Wade creates. It refuses to acknowledge that Wade can be other than learning- disabled. It has never seen the way Wade can sense that another child is troubled. It does not notice that Wade offers the gift of friendship to a child who needs him. Objectivity can only label Wade as deficient. Objectivity dulls the senses. It cuts them away, gives them no voice, no feeling, no depth, no text-w. It leaves an insensible cuniculum. Objectivity is an anaesthetic space.

An aesthetic space created a place for Fiona and Wade. It allowed them possibilities to be, and their ways of being were not pathologized. We celebrated difference, other ways of knowing and inquiry that lead us into ever spiraling questions of who we were, where we came from and what connected us to each other. Conversation became a way of being in the classroom for it lead us away from a subject-object orientation. Conversation, born in the air between us gave us the space of in-betweenness, a space of "we" instead of you and me. It became the bridge '%om your heart to your soul" ("Bridges" by Shaun,

Variation 27, p 13 1). Through conversation we uncovered relations between self and other, animate and inanimate. We found a Iiving breathing space where silence gave depth to sound. Conversation opened up an immense space, a horizon (Gadamer, 1973, a place of understanding. Gadamer calls this bridge to our souls Cbnsposingourselves". In "Truth and Method" (1960), he explains that,

Transposing ourselves consists neither in the empathy of one individual for another nor in subordinating another person to our own standards; rather, it always involves rising to a higher universality that overcomes not only in our own particularity but also that of the other... To acquire a horizon means that one learns to look beyond what is close at hand - not in order to look away Earn it but to see it better, within a larger whole and in truer proportion. (Gadamer, 1975,305.)

We began to acquire horizons, to recognize that one could never reach the edge of a horizon. We began to understand that one is always already within a larger, contextual horizon. Learning took on immense proportions. Inquiry constantly expanded our visual field. We could not ever consider that a topic was finished. Ideas that were flat when encountered in a curriculum guide began to breathe as we inquired where they came fkom:

Why was it important for us to study the physical structure of bridges?

Why were bridges buiIt?

Were bridges only physical structures?

What would happen if there were no bridges?

Could ideas be bridges?

Could people be bridges?

Were there bridges that bridged time? 190

We began to transpose ourselves. We qoke metaphors of islands and bridges. We found meaning in seeds and saw them as encapsulating the past, present, and hopes for the future. We caught glimpses of ourselves in others. A frog became a symbol for the self, small and displaced yet cared for, our collective responsibility. Rocks were messengers from the past and survivors of a huewe could not hope to know. Bridges lived as words, gestures, stories, feelings and ideas. We transposed ourselves into song, movement, dance, sketches, paintings, sculptures, poems, stories, plays and a myriad of other forms of expression. We became shape shifiers and saw that each one of us had the potential to be someone/thing else.

My best teaching came when I listened and heard not just the voices of the children but the voices of what came before and what might be. I was struck repeatedly by the notion that nothing stands in isolation and that to isolate teaching into a series of skills to be mastered is to do harm to children. Not only does it discredit the quality of their thought, demeaning them as too young to understand but such diminution of broad ideas disconnects them fiom a sense of place in the world. It removes learning fiom the context of the world leaving children nothing to grasp, no experiences to ground themselves, no place to return to, no home ground. It damages children.

In "BeSpefl of the Sensttous", David Abram (1996) writes of the damage we inhabitants of the earth have wreaked in the name of progress and civilization, and notes, We have forgotten the poise that comes kom living in storied relation and reciprocity with the myriad things, the myriad beings, that perceptually surround us. (p. 270)

Abram believes that damage has been done because we have forgotten to listen. We have

lost the ability to re-call the myriad beings that surround us. We have ceased to notice, ceased to re-member our existence with them. Consequently we have lost the relationship and reciprocity that transcended time and place and paradoxically grounded us to a particular time and place. We have become ahistorical.

If we lose a perceptual sense of the beings which surround us, the loss is a bodily loss for perception is an embodied experience. With a loss of perceptual sense, other beings literally cease to make sense, they become insensible. We become anaesthetized. We cease to care because we cannot feel. We do damage.

The children and I had to un-learn ways of being. We had to remember the classroom.

We had to attune ourselves to each other, to re-member sound and silence. We re-member-ed the classroom with the voices of the rocks that we examined. the seeds that we pried open and the voices of the [nuit hunters who chanted a prayer for a successful hunt. We re-member-ed our classroom as a place of the senses, a sense-able place. We re-member-ed the sounds of words, returned them to their beginnings for ''That was the time when words were like magic" (The Enchanted Caribou, Cleaver, 1985). Our words spoke of the ineffable and the unspeakable. We vdued words for the possibilities that lay in poetry. We re-member-ed words with the power of breath, comected them to our 192 bodies, our being, and became in-chant-edlenchanted together. We re-membered our classroom with life and death as part of the cycle of being. We text-ured our lives together.

And we had to forget. We forgot about time as a linear concept. a commodity that was consumed. Oftenwe were thrown back into an external schedule by the ringing of the bell that would make us realize time had passed. We forgot about pre-determined signposts - quizzes, tests, calendar dates - that would mark when we had learned enough. Instead, we saw different signposts. Sometimes they were the words of a poem one of us had written.

At other times it was the re-member-ing of a play, or a song sung, or a gesture or a thought. We viewed these in hindsight with a kind of astonishment, wonder at what had been uncovered. We forgot that there was some rhing to be taught. Instead we fell into inquiries about what something might mean. We learned together. Teaching became more about questioning than telling, more about listening than telling. I forgot about ways of being with parents, curriculum and children that related to authority and expertise. I re-member-ed my practice with care.

We began to stay with things, to dwell with them (Heidegger, 1954,3 5 1 ) and in so doing, we caught glimpses of ourselves in oneness, a "belonging to men's being with one another". Heidegger writes of the belonging together of earth, sky, divinities and mortals and explains that when we say one of the four "we are already thinking of the other three dong with it, but we give no thought to the simple oneness of the four." (Heidegger,

1954,351)

"The simple oneness of the four" began to take hold in our classroom. h became most apparent in the work we did at the Arts Centre with "The Enchanted Caribou " (Cleaver,

1985). The "Magic Words" which begin the legend refer to the oneness of the four.

... a person could become an animal ifhe wanted to and an animal could become a human being Sometimes they were animals and there was no difference All spoke the same Iungzrage That was the time when wordr were like magic. The human mind had mysteriozis powers (p. 2.)

The children never questioned the ''oneness of the four". The play which created the play necessitated belief in "the oneness of the four". The play did not have a character of being built, rather it "UnfioIded" (Gadamer, 1960) ,it took on the character of play itself. We dwelt in play.

The play of "The Enchanted Caribou" (Cleaver, 1985) had the character of dwelling in as did the episodes with seeds, bridges, and clay. Dwelling in required us to take care of things, to preserve them, to treat ideas with care and respect, to nurture them.

Heidegger asks the question, "In what way does building belong to dwelling?". He then uses the example of a bridge to explain that, To be me, the bridge is a thing of its own kind; for it gathers the fourfold in such a way that it allows a site for it. But only something that is itselfa Zocde can make a space for a site. The locale is not already there before the bridge is. A locale comes into existence only by virtue of the bridge. By this site are determined the places and paths by which a space is provided for. (Heidegger, 1954,3 55.)

The site and the locale come into existence because of each other, Neither can exist without the other. I regard Heidegger's words as a great gift. I had always feared that my teaching was inadequate because I could not will something profound to happen. I could not make it happen. I could never locate where teaching/learning was going to happen. I thought that this was my fault, due to ill preparation or a lack of aptitude. But Heidegger explains that the space of teaching/leaming can never be decided in advance because the locale does not exist before the bridge. We cannot locate the space before the bridge. We cannot locate aesthetic space before the bridge.

But the locale and the site do not come into being accidentally. There are ways of being that predispose us to possibility. For conversation to gather the fou5old of earth, sky, divinities and mortals, there must exist a desire to see these in relation. A bridge seen as a bridge does not lack intention.

Our conversations did not lack intention. We were never sure where they would lead us, but we always knew that something would be uncovered. When we read stories together, they would sometimes capture us on a visceral level. Tears would form in our eyes, or we would shudder in revulsion, or tense our muscfes in fear, or gasp in surprise. Then we wondered what it was that initiated such a bodied response. 195

Ifconvenation was the bridge, its site was the space of books, art, poetry, inanimate objects and ideas that became animate with the air we breathed in them. We didn't just talk about these things, we played with them. They came dive as we rolled their words over our tongues, savored their colors, felt their textured existence, and re-called what they might mean. We stayed with them, convinced that something would be revealed.

They became sense-able, aesthetic.

Aesthetic space has the character of dwelling. Heidegger speaks ofthis space as a place which has a boundary, but not in the sense that it is where something stops. Instead, he speaks of the boundary as the horizon, that where something begins its "essential unfolding" (Heidegger, 1954,3 56).

To dwell in this space is to allow for learning to unfold in a way different From skill lists, inventories, multiple choice exams and rank ordering of children. It allows space for

Becky, Shaun, Fiona Gabriela Jake, Julie, Tatiana and the hundreds of other children I have had the privilege to teach.

To dwell in this space is to listen; to hear the voice of the child in in multitude of timbres, with richness and resonance. It allows for Fiona to be a poet, Ianelle to be a singer, Craig to be a dancer, Shaun to be a philosopher, and Wade to be an artist. 196

To dwell in this space is to be where past, present, and fiiture meet. It is a space where the mysteries of the universe can unfold or be hidden in a piece of charcoal.

To dwell in this space is to tsll under the spell of wonder, to come face to face with ourselves in the Other. It is to find that the rhythm of life is in everything.

To dwell in this space is to play with ideas, words, and things. It is to be made by them as much as they are made by us.

To dwell in this space is to be astonished by that which unfolds, to be continuously made anew by our relation with the world.

To dwell in this space is to hear the presence of silence. It is the space of the ineffable and the unspeakable.

To dwell in this space is to be enchanted, to be in-chant with one another.

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