When You Take Time to Share

Whenever I hear someone spout out the old adage “Those who can do. Those who can’t teach,” I am first panged by a sense of great sadness that this person would actually feel this way. Yes, they may have heard it a thousand times, but now they’ve internalized the message as well.

My next thought is, “Well, not the people I had as teachers!”

I will admit that I had unique teachers. Montessori directresses in mixed-grade facilitative classrooms, my physician mother while unschool homeschooling, senior mentors who were eager to share their passion and craft, and professors who were continually active and engaged in issues that mattered deeply to them inside and outside of the classroom.

If every person really is their own library, then teaching from that unique place of knowing must be one of the noblest returnings of a gift well earned to the people around us. This might be captured through moments like last Saturday’s tiny needle felting class. A first-time felting student commented that she intended to continue working on the project at home, that even though fully-formed, to her the little wooly robin was not yet poked into perfection.

Paraphrasing from a renowned painter, I offered, “Oh, an art piece is never actually finished, it just stops in interesting places.”

It was like a light flashed in the room, and her expression transformed into a mix of relief and delight. She no longer had to own when something was finished, just when she was ready to let it rest at an interesting place. And what a liberating moment that can be when, like me, one’s practice can often get caught up in the no-win clutch of perfectionism and wanting to desperately “get it right.”

Through my own journey of coming finding how to let the work rest at an interesting place, instead of insisting on “getting it right” and losing the joyful spontaneity of process, I was able to pass that toolkit on to another person on their journey and watch the ripples in the moment.

Those are real treats on the trail of being a teacher. They are gifts offered, and when taken up and put to fruitful use, the inner cry goes up, “Yes, someone gets it!” One way to describe the feeling would be to say you get a little high from making a difference.

But this doesn’t always happen. Sometimes the gift is dropped or lays flat in the room, ungathered.

Over the years, we have offered unique learning opportunities on our farm to college students from a variety of schools—internships, workshops, shadowing, interviews. Some are eager in that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, youthfully exuberant way that is just begging to be pointed at something interesting and challenging and then (watch out and stand back) stuff gets done with exuberance. Some are curious and full of questions (sometimes so many questions stuff doesn’t always get done). But some are just, well, bumps.

College students and I are still in the same generation (at some point I won’t get to say that anymore!), so I still see myself in them and our shared growing-up experiences. I’d have been in the question-asking, bushy-tailed, frenzied note-taking category. The bump behavior, though, that’s a tough one. And it’s one that has gotten me thinking after a college tour and luncheon we hosted on the farm this last week.

Now, I understand that shyness certainly plays a part in this social situation. There could also be intimidation, jealousy, or any number of prejudices that could cause a student to disengage from the learning moment. But there’s another reason that stands very present in my mind—shaming.

Shaming is an extremely powerful social tool used to disincentivize unwanted behaviors. It’s also used to cause people to conform to an expected norm. A great tragedy that I witnessed amongst so many of my fellow Montessori friends at our diaspora into Middle School was to watch the shaming of their new surroundings beat out those bright eyes and busy tails and hands raised for questions.

That formerly rewarded behavior became the dangerous place. Retracting into quietness and blank stares was safer, much safer. And even when these college students were surrounded by an enthusiastic professor and two eager, facilitative guest speakers at a private field trip arranged just for them, it was hard to tease out even one question from the student collective. The habit of retreat, of feeling safe in passive rather than active learning held sway. How sorrowful to witness, when the environment and encouragement was all right there.

But we all fall into this trap some time or another. We check out, even when we are with someone we care about. We remain quiet, even when that small voice inside is urging us to speak up. We deny ourselves opportunities, even when they are presented freely. Maybe we are still wrestling, at a subconscious level, with feelings of not being worthy of the relationship, the chance to voice our thoughts, or the special opportunity.

But I can say from this week that, when you’re the one taking the time to share, there is a tremendous tragedy in watching that moment be thrown away. We all have busy lives and have demanding schedules piled with things on our plate that need attention. I had CSA shares to pack, a farmer’s market to prep, bills to pay, emails to write, and on and on. But instead I was hiking with these students through the woods behind the barn, speaking to regenerative land stewardship processes.

A part of me hopes, really hopes, that even though there were few outwards signs of engagement, something in the message was sinking in internally—lodging somewhere like a seed in rocky soil to find a little damp place to grow and be rediscovered later. I can rest in the knowing that I certainly tried.

So when someone does take the time to share, be ready. Be open. Ask questions. Find a piece of the conversation to be interested in. It might change your whole hour or day. It will certainly impact the giver’s day, week, even lifetime. Let’s get more of those little “making a difference” highs going. See you down on the farm sometime.