March 16th, 2023—Have you noticed? Are you feeling it? Is your spirit lifting? On March 20th, the spring equinox begins with an even division between night and day. Light is on the rise and as spring slides into summer the days will continue to lengthen. I’m feeling it, my spirit is lifted with the returning sun. I’m noticing the newness emerging from the ground in the form of daffodils, tulips, spring spinach, and garlic I planted in the fall. There is still more winter ahead. The earth will welcome the moisture with gracious acceptance. But the season is turning and soon the heat of summer will arrive. I will long for the cool mornings and frosted windshields of March.
Before I lean too far past spring into summer, I want to take a few more deep breaths of short days and winter darkness. I want to remember the gifts of winter light that yield understandings that build into an appreciation of the increasing light of spring. I need to be reminded that sometimes the winter darkness in my teaching can reveal forms of knowing that are obscured by the harsh intensity of summer light.
What I find important is not the distinction between winter and summer as seasons, but rather the quality of light in both contexts. I find it helpful to attend to what is made evident and what is obscured under the different light conditions associated with the seasons. The same is true with teaching. For instance, winter light is low and sparse throughout the day and summer light is high in the sky and penetrating. I know that at times I need the low angled light of sideways thinking to see important distinctions in learning or knowing that direct light tends to blur. For example, poetry as an entry point into a difficult reading is often a more effective tool for opening up the conversation than a quiz which can clearly reveal understandings but doesn’t allow for nuance and personal meaning making.
Another example I find helpful, when reflecting on different qualities of light, comes from the Celts. They speak concretely and metaphorically of sun and moon light as two different but intertwined forms of knowing. In their close association with nature and human behavior they understand sun-knowledge as harsh, direct, and penetrating. It offers the gift of clarity and precision; nothing can hide from the intensity and directness of the mid-day sun. I think of those moments in my teaching when I ask questions that bring to light logical or philosophical inconsistencies emerging in classroom discussions. Or when I assign readings that directly challenge, with clarity and persuasion, the taken for granted assumptions of how the world works. Inconvenient truths and experiences must be addressed when the light comes from above with intensity and precision.
The Celts also recognize that darkness and moonlight offers a contrasting way to both experience the natural world and to craft an alternative form of knowing. Moonlight, unlike the sun, is gentle and shaded. Thus, seeing at night requires a capacity to move with caution and a willingness to accept an incomplete vision of the world as the margins of things are less defined and delineated. Another important element of moon light is that it changes on a nightly basis as the moon cycles through its phases from new to full and back again.
As a teacher I have learned to appreciate those moments when moonlight wisdom is the best way to understand the type of learning that energizes the classroom discourse. For instance, when a student is stating tentative formulations of knowledge, it is better to leave the margins of the argument blurred and soft so that new and more accurate formulations can emerge as more light is added day to day. And sometimes, less light is the best way to soften beliefs and create the capacity to question taken for granted truths about effective forms of teaching and learning.
Of the two forms of light, sun and moon, I find that moonlight requires more discipline and practice on my part to fully access and appreciate. The combination of darkness, changing light conditions, and the softened boundaries of the world can be disorienting. It takes practice and commitment to see in new ways the truths that are boldly defined by sunlight wisdom. To question what seems like unquestionable truths requires the ability to soften the margins and open the world to new possibilities. I use moonlight wisdom when I actively question my assumptions about whether or not a student is fully engaged in class or if I wonder about their ability to produce high quality academic work. When answering these questions with the purely analytical tools of grades and rubrics, the answer is often clear and undisputable. But when I interrogate my assumptions with attentiveness to nuance and sideways observation, I can see elements of a student’s academic journey and being that I missed in my first analysis.
I started this essay noting that the spring equinox is rapidly approaching, and I look forward to the gifts of summer that will soon follow. And at the same time, I don’t want to completely lose or abandon the ways that winter-light or moonlight offer important insights into teaching and learning. For me, sitting with intention and discipline in darkness is a place of growth and rebirth. When is the last time you sat outside at night and looked into the familiar landscape that you more frequently see under the light of day? What did you see that you missed when the sun is high and bright? In a similar way, what might it mean to witness your teaching and student learning as if seeing it through the light of the moon and its changing phases? What might you see anew of a student’s learning as you tracked through from new to full moon knowing?