OK – bear with me. Science – this morning. Trudged along to a Science lab in the Senior School – my children didn’t know what to expect. I had purposely not mentioned that we were going into a room full of bones. A colleague, who was leading the session, had set out a huge variety of skulls and skeletons and I had hoped that we would be able to explore. Wonder. Puzzle. Make observations. Ask questions…and we did get to do that, but only a little bit; he told them what that bone was, and ‘that there are three bones in the ear’… ‘and that’s an orangutan’s skeleton’. His intentions were good – of course they were – and he knows his stuff – but I thought, ‘Ow…give curiosity a chance…there could be some great questions here…’
As I’m writing this, a memory comes to mind; I’m standing in the lounge with my sister (I’m probably about 8, she’s about 6). It’s first thing in the morning – slippers and pyjamas. Through the glass of the patio doors, we’re watching our much older brother, hands shoved in pockets, smug and purposeful, walk a big circle around the garden – smirking at us. The thing is, that night, there’d been snow and the garden was untouched and perfect. We were desperate to get dressed and go out. We were excited. Remember that feeling? We wanted to be the ones to play in the snow – to explore it – it really wasn’t his thing anymore. We didn’t want to have to watch somebody else muck it up for us – and deny us the delight of doing that ourselves. I have no memory of actually going out and playing in the snow after that. I’m not sure I wanted to. I do remember the feelings of outrage and disappointment though. He had spoiled the magic – intentionally.
It’s maybe a tenuous link (!), but back in the Science lab – I wondered whether each child’s opportunity to explore had been optimum. The lesson wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind, but did that mean learning hadn’t happened?
Does it matter?
I mentioned it to another colleague later on, reflecting on whether it was significant or whether I was over-thinking it. She answered… ‘Yes, it’s massive.’ And I think, that potentially, it could be.
The role of a teacher, my role, has to change. I really don’t want to be at the front – ‘the expert’, the ‘if Mrs Young says it, it must be true’…(I’ve heard some of my children say that). I want to learn with them…the more I do this job, the more I realise how much I don’t know… Sure – I know it’s a balance and sometimes, you have to literally ‘teach’ to fill in the odd, inevitable gap – and I love being part of that learning. But have I ever spoiled the snow? Yep – probably.
So I’m thinking that my role is now more about supplying the hats and gloves before I send them out, roughly in the right direction; perhaps I just need to keep an eye on them and be there afterwards with the hot-chocolate, when they’re ready to defrost and reflect on the experience.
A room full of skeletons is a fantastic resource and we’re so fortunate to have it at our finger-tips – but does it become a little less fantastic when it’s accessed in the absence of curiosity?
Saying curiosity is ‘a bottomless pit’ doesn’t sound quite right, but it is, potentially, bottomless. It doesn’t take up any space in the cupboard and it’s completely free – but it’s also vulnerable – like snow – it can be trampled on and melt away in a second. If curiosity was seen more as an official resource to learning, rather than an occasional ‘luxury’, would we take better care of it? Is it, in actual fact, our most valuable resource?