April 20th, 2022—The world of the classroom, in my experience, is often an overwhelming complex place. It can be a blooming and buzzing confusion of sounds, energy, emotions, smells, feelings and the emergent unexpected. Although seemingly chaotic, educational spaces of this nature are often highly productive and intentionally orchestrated to enhance learning. Metaphorically, the classroom resembles a waterhole in a drying landscape where a vast array of animals, compatible and incompatible, find their way to the refreshing water. In such an instructional space, a practiced observer will recognize discreet pedagogical elements that when taken together create a mosaic of educational practices and patterns. In many cases these instructional moves are so subtle that even the teacher may not recognize their existence.
David Hansen in his text Reimagining the Call to Teach: A Witness to Teachers and Teaching describes this type of deep witnessing as paying attention to the “resonant particulars” of the classroom. Each classroom and each educator, much like the physical features of a waterhole, has a unique quality and set of inner commitments that are expressed during the act of teaching. The combination of content and context becomes a signature pedagogy that sets one teacher apart from another. Teacher effectiveness in this sense is less about technique and more about small and nuanced moves and relational dynamics.
Technique is important and central to the craft of teaching. But like the charismatic mega-fauna at the waterhole, technique is easy to see and document through traditional check boxes of proficiency. Yet any close observer of nature knows that more is happening at the water’s edge than the arrival of large carnivores and herbivores quenching their thirst. It is often the small creatures and subtle features of the land that bring true definition to the scene. These minute features and actions are the resonant particulars of the classroom.
When I consider the task of observing and coaching teachers through the lens of resonant particulars I find that I consider teaching in new and important ways. I’m encouraged to look for details and gradations. I slow down and resist rushing the process. I retune my lens away from efficiency and toward fidelity. Unlike the more global features of teaching, like lesson plans or classroom management, the resonant particulars resist predictable patterns. They don’t function in clockwork precision as technique often does, so they are not often captured by rubrics or performance indicators. They rest close to the heart of the teacher and emanate from deeper sources of knowing that are nearly unconscious.
When setting out to observe these elements I approach the task the same way I attend to nature study. I move slowly and deliberately, working to place myself in the best location to be fully present. I’m cautious to not disturb the action or make abrupt moves which might chase the waterhole animals into hiding. I need to be ready for the unexpected and serendipitous. It is helpful to have the right tools. In my case I rely heavily on intuition and patterns. I sense more than know objectively what instructional moves are true to the educator and which are less authentic. The instructional space feels three dimensional and rich with possibility, not flat and unidimensional. I feel like I’m looking around corners, through dense brush, or under objects to catch a quick glimpse of the resonant particulars of the teacher.
Why do I spend time looking for that which is often not even visible to the teacher? What difference does attending to nuances make for learning in the classroom? I believe that there are truths about self that are evident and there are truths that are less evident. For instance, student independence is important to me. I know this is true because I get frustrated when a student lingers in the traditional role of dependent learner, asking me to define all aspects of their learning. And there are truths that only become apparent when an observer names those qualities and points to specific moments as evidence. I never knew the extent to which my in-class question asking was a form of knitting and weaving diverse voices and perspectives until a colleague pointed this out. Once shown this truth it was apparent to me that I deeply value the voice and perspectives of others because in doing so the landscape of learning and seeing the world anew is expanded.
In the poem The Woodcarver, by Chuang Tzu (translated by Thomas Merton), there is a section of the narrative that speaks to the importance of resonant particulars in work that is well done and sustaining. The central character in the poem is the master carver Khing who is asked by the Prince of Lu to describe the secret by which Khing is able to carve a bell stand of mystical form. After explaining the process of becoming spiritually and physically centered on the task, Khing states: Then I went to the forest / To see the trees in their own natural state. / When the right tree appeared before my eyes, / The bell stand also appeared in it, clearly, beyond doubt.
When reading this section of the poem I hear a call to pay attention to the resonant particulars as essential to the creation of something approaching perfection. In terms of teaching it seems that to really witness teaching qualities that escape even well-crafted observation tools, the observer must seek the natural state of the educator. This means, I think, cultivating the skill and patience to look beyond the obvious to what is ineffable and transitory. It is only after seeing what was present but not initially evident can the observer know that the right teacher, the true teacher, will appear. And central to this appearance are the unique qualities that can be surfaced and refined. When an observer can point to resonant particulars that the teacher can also see, then there is a good chance that the act of witnessing is revealing deep truths about the teacher and their practice. The hidden essence that signifies true teaching will appear, beyond doubt.