May 12th, 2023—In the field of education, most of the professional development and teacher evaluation is focused on the twin elements of curriculum and instruction. The dominant questions are; What is being taught? and How is that content being taught? Periodically, the conversation might shift to the questions of philosophy. Why is the educator making specific choices regarding content or pedagogy? What values are they upholding? Rarer yet is the consideration of the embodied nature of teaching. An approach to practice that honors the body as a source of wisdom and knowing. Important questions to ask here are; Where in your body do you feel joy, frustration, or loss? What does your gut tell you about how to effectively teach a hard topic? What does it mean to be fully present to self and others when teaching? How do you know when your body is part of the educational process and when it is absent?
When I’m puzzled or struggling with my teaching, I find embodied questions helpful in my professional development as an educator. My head contains facts, memories, and technical information that I draw from. My Western trained intellect is what I often turn to when I need to reason my way from ambiguity to meaning. But there are times when the mind, despite its store house of knowledge is inadequate for task. For instance, I have noticed that when I’m shifting from office emails, meetings, and scholarship to the classroom itself it is helpful to be intentional about the transition. If I walk in and immediately start teaching, I might be technically correct in how I structure learning, but if my body isn’t fully present, I can feel off-balance. To create space for embodied wisdom to appear, I invite the students to settle and center by taking three deep breathes. The energy level in the classroom becomes less scattered, less individual, coherent, and communal. As I breathe, I too feel grounded and a greater sense of integration between body, mind, emotions, and spirit.
For me, the feeling of embodiedness changes in a seasonal rhythm, not necessarily with the actual seasons, but more in accordance with the metaphor of seasons. Thus they can be experienced anytime. For instance, in the midst of my winter of teaching, when I’m feeling isolated and disconnected from my gifts. I can, at times, experience a summer sense of abundance and grace.
I was thinking about seasons and embodied teaching recently in conjunction with the actual season of spring. I have a lighter teaching load this spring because I carried a heavier load over the winter. This was an intentional choice on my part, thinking that with less classes to teach I could refocus time and energy on service and scholarship. But my body still remembers the stress and busyness of winter. It feels keyed-up and ready to teach, when it should be quieting and shifting to none-teaching pursuits. I thought that spring was going to slow down for me, but it has really broken free of the mental boundaries I created. My body reminds me that I must consciously chose what to nurture and what to prune. What to commit my body to and what to resist. I guess this is what spring is about, abundance and the unexpected, and the role of my body in decision making.
Spring and renewal is central to many religious traditions. In the Christian tradition, Easter is the primary story of renewal and rebirth. I was recently talking to a colleague about the embodied wisdom of Easter and the universal parallels to the challenges and opportunities of teaching. For instance, the body of Jesus has been sealed in a tomb, hidden away from the world. How often, do teachers feel as if their bodies are separated from the real work of teaching by institutional and social expectations that are more interested in efficiency and standards, than soulful teaching?
The Easter story tells us that Mary comes to the tomb early in the morning but is amazed when she encounters the stone covering the entrance has been rolled away by an angel. Jesus, as he predicted before his death, is no longer in the tomb but instead he is resurrected and once again present to others. Two aspects of this story speak to important elements of the embodied nature of teaching. The first is that Mary was physically present at the entrance to the tomb as a witness. This, for me, is a good reminder of the importance of being physically present to the transformation that students are invited into during the educational experience as their old knowledge dies away and something new arrives in the world. At its best, success in educational spaces means students leave as different people, they are changed.
The second truth around embodied teaching involves the stone covering the entrance to the grave. In the Easter story it is rolled aside by an angel so that Mary can see that Jesus is gone. This part of the narrative invites me to consider what is the stone holding me back from changing and becoming more fully myself as a teacher? Who is the angel in my life rolling away the stone? To move a stone requires physical action. You can’t move it with your mind. It is an embodied experience and often better accomplished in community than attempted as an individual action.
During this spring season, when the body of nature is shedding winter and emerging into a new season, I invite you to consider the embodied nature of your teaching. What are the ways your body is as important as your mind in creating equitable learning spaces for students? Who are your colleagues that help you remove the stones that hinder your transformation? What new is emerging into the light of the day that is worth nurturing and what should you prune?
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