Confronted With an Idea

by Anne White

A slide popped up a couple of days ago on my social media. I couldn’t track down the author's account, which is one reason I think it may have been floating around for awhile. Nevertheless, what it had to say was intriguing: 

“Reading books is so profound because it denies you the ability to speak when confronted with an idea. You must listen. It isn’t a conversation. Sometimes it shouldn’t be a conversation. Sometimes we should just listen. Just listen.”

Now, that (as many commenters squawked back) flies in the face of much we’ve been told about reading and books. Mortimer J. Adler’s How to Read a Book  famously compares reading to a game of catch, which demands at least some amount of back-and-forth activity. In an age when what students do in class is discuss things; in a time when we’re encouraged to leave comments and feedback on every post and every video (because it helps with the ratings), to be told we should listen in silence… just listen…feels heretical.

And yet. And yet.

What do Charlotte Mason students do? Narrate. As opposed to Vanity Fair’s  young whippersnapper George Osborne, whose little essay is derided by Charlotte in Home Education. “And well might Mrs George Sedley be delighted. Would not many a mother to-day triumph in such a literary effort? What can Thackeray be laughing at? Or does he, in truth, give us this little 'theme' as a tour de force?” (p. 244)

And what comes before narration? Listening. Attentiveness. Observation. Hearing, in the Biblical sense.

In Ragman and Other Cries of Faith, Walter Wangerin Jr.  wrote about his experiences as a young pastor, visiting an older woman from his church who was facing an unknown future after cancer surgery. One day as he talked about the weather and how nice it would be when she was feeling better, this woman became exasperated with his chatter and told him to “Shut up.” So he did: “I entered her room at noon, saying nothing. I sat beside her through the afternoon, saying nothing…; but with the evening came the Holy Spirit. For the words I finally said were not my own…”

Learning to shut up allowed Wangerin the needed space for the Spirit to minister.

Learning to listen first, including as we read, may do the same.

It's something to think about, anyway. 

We would not willingly educate [a child] towards what is called 'self-expression'; he has little to express except what he has received as knowledge, whether by way of record or impression; what he can do is to assimilate and give this forth in a form which is original because it is modified, re-created, by the action of his own mind; and this originality is produced by the common bread and milk which is food for everyone, acting upon the mind which is peculiar to each individual child. (Philosophy of Education, p. 66)

Connecting and Coffee

by Anne White

A few years ago, my husband and I bought an electric coffee percolator. We usually make a potful in the late morning, and spend our “coffee break” together before going back to whatever we’re working on. I had thought for awhile that it might be nice (and a bit Mitfordish) to grind our own beans, so when we saw not one but three different electric grinders at the thrift store, we picked out one that looked clean and sturdy. It even came in its original box, which we thought was a good sign.

However, packaging isn’t everything.

We bought a bag of coffee beans, watched someone’s “unboxing” video online, and prepared to grind. We plugged it in, the motor ran, and a few of the beans got a bit chewed up, but it obviously wasn’t working properly.  Did we have one of the parts in upside down? Was anything jamming the works? No, everything seemed fine. My husband, ever ready with the screwdriver, took the thing apart, and he saw the problem: the drive shaft was broken, so the grinding burrs wouldn’t turn. It didn’t matter how clean or new it looked, what kind of coffee we used, or for what grind we set it. Without that main connection, the machine was useless. My husband snipped off the cord (those often come in handy) and put the rest aside as e-waste.

Is there an educational metaphor in a broken grinder? In a Herbartian view of education, we might ourselves be viewed as machines in need of replacement parts. Should we say that students (or other people) who lack drive are useless, and, worse, unrepairable? Perhaps yes to the first, but no to the second. Since we hold to a more organic view of the mind, we can also take confidence in the work of the Spirit that strengthens both our “drive” and our ability to connect, to see and form relationships.

I think we got more out of our dud coffee grinder than just an extra cord.

P.S. I heard an interesting thought about the quality of coffee beans, too, but I'll save that for another post.