Om not Um

I have taught every semester, every year, since 1995, the year of the O.J. Simpson trial, Jerry Garcia’s death, and the opening of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.  It was also the year of Babe, The Usual Suspects, and “All I Wanna Do” by Sheryl Crow. 

In other words, I’ve been teaching a long time, from high school freshmen to doctoral candidates.  For the first several years, I felt guilty because I was learning more from my students than they were from me.  After a long while, I finally figured out what I was doing.  Or so it seemed.  There were good semesters and bumpy semesters, eager students and indifferent ones.  Through it all, I grew and changed, and still can be absolutely surprised at what my students have to teach me, if I’m willing to listen. 

With all of this experience and reflectivity in and on teaching, I was reasonably certain I could adapt easily from English education to yoga.  As Nels put it, at the very least, I know how to be in front of people and connect with them.  Plus, the sequence of poses was already prepared for me—I didn’t even have to develop it.  Nels even let me teach him the poses so I could practice. 

Thus, I felt mostly prepared to teach my first class this weekend.  Similar to microteaching in the early courses of our secondary education program, the audience would be my peers.  As I watched others teach, my teacher educator self peeked out and I could feel myself being critical.  She didn’t say very much.  He moved too fast.  She skipped that pose.  After listening to my peers’ and teacher’s feedback though, I realized that those were small issues. My teacher was looking for something different, and I saw that the things I had depended upon as a high school English teacher and college professor, that is, my verbal ability and strong personality, were not assets in this setting, but liabilities. 

For example, my teacher asked us to use only necessary words—nouns and verbs--in our instructions.  It was easy to see why.  Filler like “We’re going to…” before the next pose breaks up the rhythm, as every pose has a specific time to inhale and exhale.  She also asked that we focus on what students were experiencing, and when possible, to demonstrate instead of using words. 

This was a struggle.  My teaching persona is built on the outgoing aspects of my personality.  I like to tell stories as well as hear them.  Plus, I enjoy yoga teachers who bring themselves into the room.  However, my teacher’s point was well-taken:  yoga is the place for students to go inward, something that is not readily available in everyday life.  If I’m up there telling stories and trying to impress with clever repartee, the class is focused on me and my performance, not on their experiences with their bodies.

Thus, before the class, I was determined to shut the hell up.  I even wrote, “Stop talking!” on my cheat sheet.  Alas, it was not to be.  I kept using the word “gently” as in “gently raise your left leg” or “gently lay your head on the mat.”  I also said “um” a lot.  It’s kind of ironic, since “Om” is the universal word to start and end yoga classes.  At least I got that right.

My biggest disappointment, though, was that I was so concerned with getting things right that I neglected my students.  In fact, I barely opened my eyes through the first postures.  My teacher pointed out that several of us, when teaching, neglected a peer who, due to injury, was having difficulty executing a particular pose.  As she reminded us, being a good teacher is about self-control.  The teacher needs to be able to put aside her ego to focus on her students.  Duh.  How many times have I said this to the candidates I teach?

On the plus side, my peers told me that they felt safe and that I taught with integrity.  I also did well with what I thought would be my biggest problems:  pacing (slow) and voice (soft. I know!  Can you believe it? Me?).    My teacher said that I executed my intention to have a restful class.  This made me feel better.

This experience reminded me of two things.  First, doing something is not the same as teaching it. Just because I have been doing variations of these yoga poses for five years doesn’t mean I know how to teach them to others. Second, it is not only the tasks that are challenging, but recognizing and understanding the nuances of a teaching environment. Any classroom, in any setting, has a unique meta-structure that is only partially discernible to all but the most observant students.  This structure reflects the values and demands of the institution and the teacher. Thoughtful and skilled teachers render the structure invisible, but its absence becomes obvious when an inexperienced or clumsy teacher steps in.

Once again, I am reminded that the intellectual work of teaching is only part of the equation, albeit a necessary part.  Nothing takes the actual place of practice with compassionate and knowledgeable observers, whether they are students, peers or teachers. My message to teacher candidates, then, is this:  take every opportunity to teach and get feedback.  Read not only the surfaces of the teaching environment, but what is going on underneath, just as you would with any text.  And always question your motives when planning and executing a lesson.  Does the lesson reflect what your students need at this moment in this context?

My message to myself, as a teacher educator, is to observe my candidates with compassion and patience.  As I was reminded, becoming teacher is hard work, and flailing about is part of the process.  

  

Namaste.          

Presence versus Performance

This weekend, I will be teaching my first yoga class to fellow teacher trainees. 

There will be no objectives, no standards, and no assessments, at least in the sense I’m used to.  In the field of education, we use these various tools in order to justify what we are doing; to prove that it is meaningful in a larger context.   

With yoga, it is somewhat different.  I will be following a set “lesson plan,” in that I will be teaching Dharma Mittra’s Gentle Sequence.  He developed this sequence based on his work with his guru, who got it from his guru, and so on back to the teachings of yoga based on ancient Hindu scriptures.  There’s a history here, a sense of groundedness and connection that often seems missing from the field of education’s ever-evolving standards of what should be taught, why, and when.   In yoga, student safety and well-being are far more important than whether s/he accomplishes a particular pose and to what degree.  There is a mutual understanding between teacher and student that every day is different, every body is different, and that yoga is a nonlinear process that evolves.  There is no finish line, no test that says yes, I am a winner, I am an “A” yoga student. 

Yoga students are not measured against one another.  I have never heard a yoga teacher say that a student has low skills, for example.  Some students are more flexible, some are more experienced, and some know their bodies very well, but the unique strengths and struggles of each student is recognized and appreciated.    

Thus, yoga teachers are not evaluated on the skills and accomplishments of their students.  It is up to the teacher to provide the structure and guidance for a thoughtful and meaningful experience of body, mind, and heart.  It is then up to the student to choose to what degree she accepts these teachings.  In schools, students are punished if they don’t accept what their teacher offers, whether or not these teachings fit with their learning styles, previous knowledge, and interests. 

With this in mind, how will I know whether I have done a good job of teaching? Because yoga is a practice, and this teaching is practice, it feels both low-stakes and high-stakes.  It’s low-stakes because these are my colleagues and they know the poses and know me; it’s a gentle sequence so nobody will get hurt; and I have my teacher’s support.  But it’s also high-stakes because I need to recognize each student’s strengths and fragilities of body and ego. 

Come to think of it, maybe teaching yoga is not all that different from teaching English.  Beginning English teachers focus on activities and methods; beginning yoga teachers probably focus on poses and sequencing.  But the real teaching, in both yoga and English, comes with being fully present to and for students.  Because this is difficult to measure, it will never be on any PRAXIS test offered by the Educational Testing Service.  However, as a teacher, teacher educator, and student, I know it when I see it.  Presence comes with confidence, experience, and a finely tuned sense of what is happening in the classroom or yoga studio; what is said, and what is felt. 

As I observe my English teacher candidates in the schools and teach my first yoga classes over the next few weeks, that is what I will be looking for and working on.  Good teaching is not about performance.  It’s about presence.    

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

 “When I had to stop running, it was like a breakup.”  Jill J.

I don’t know about you, but I suck at breakups.  Good thing I’ve been married for 18 years and am as in love with my partner as ever.  But back in the day, I managed to shred every bit of respect and possible friendship with ex-boyfriends.  My friend Lesley is on good terms with all of her exes, inviting them over for parties where they even mingle with one another.  Me, not so much. 

Here’s my pattern:  decide it’s over, but am not sure how to break it to the person.  Behave incredibly badly so he breaks up with me instead.  Feel terrible and make him feel terrible too.

I broke up with T the summer between 10^th and 11^th grade. I dated one of his friends who had a Camaro (okay, it was the 80’s), and then felt sorry for T and got back together with him.  Whereupon he borrowed 50 bucks from me and left town with no further word.  I stalked as best I could, but to no avail.  So I ended up eating loaves of Roman Meal bread the entire summer, gained 10 lbs., and experienced a plummet in grades and self-esteem that I haven’t seen before or since.

Then there was B.  Handsome motorcycle rider, independent at 20 years old, living on his own with a pit bull (don’t judge; Veda was sweet).  I abandoned my first semester at IU to move in with B (now you can judge).  After a year, I moved all my stuff back to my parents’ house without telling B.  I’ll never forget the devastation on his face when he came home and saw that I moved out.  I honestly thought it would be easier that way, but needless to say, abruptly ending a year-long relationship without any advance notice did not exactly inspire a drama-free scene.

And finally, there was G. You’d think I would have learned something with the previous two experiences, but no.  I knew this relationship was limited, but it was fun and kept me from being lonely.  Then I met Nels (whom I later married and still am to this day), and I tried really hard to extricate myself from G.  G didn’t make it easy, though.  I broke up with him, then felt sorry for him, got back together, and then broke up again over the phone.  He left multiple nasty messages on my answering machine. Nels heard them and said, “I would never say that to you.”  And he hasn’t.  Ever. 

It’s clear that breaking up in a caring, thoughtful way, where all parties agree that it was the best thing, is simply not in my repertoire.  I haven’t seen or talked to T, B, or G since, and it’s probably clear why.  But as I consider my newest breakup, with marathoning, I hope this time is different, and we can still be friends.  I still intend to run, but I’m aware that the romance with long distance is gone.

Marathoning and I talked it over, and it’s clear we are on the same page.  I no longer have the same devotion and commitment to it.  It doesn’t want a half-assed effort on my part.  We even decided to part friends.  I will visit as my partner continues to run long distances with his eye on the coveted BQ (Boston Qualifier), and I will continue to run, albeit without a watch and without regard to weekly mileage. 

However, marathoning and I agreed to maintain our relationship until last weekend.  Just as warring couples stay together for an important event, like prom, a friend’s wedding, or a visit with the in-laws, marathoning and I had a long-standing date in Washington D.C. for the Marine Corps Marathon.  For the third and last time, we braved the mileage, soreness, and salt-encrusted skin together. 

In my innocence, I thought we had parted friends.  As befitting a split between real lovers, and my previous relationships, this last event was long, painful, and full of doubt and hurt.  Despite the inspiring location, prodigious crowds, and reasonable training, I was miserable much of the time, trying to find excuses to quit.  Adding injury to insult, I just found out I have a stress fracture in my left foot.  I guess I still have much to learn about breaking up gracefully.