by Heather Plett | Dec 15, 2011 | Uncategorized
The past couple of weeks, my energy has been consumed mostly with the two effective written communication classes I’m teaching at the university. That path has taken me through some interesting terrain lately, with a lot of ups and downs.
Discovering plagiarism… DOWN.
Having to create and administer an exam when I’m not convinced exams have value for this kind of learning… DOWN.
Spending nine hours marking that exam… DOWN.
Listening to students make their final presentations about pieces of writing that impacted them… UP.
Witnessing the courage of some of the students when they spoke closer to their hearts than they’re used to speaking in class… UP.
Seeing the looks of disappointment on the faces of international students who struggle in English when their exam marks were lower than they’d hoped… DOWN.
Receiving genuine apologies for the plagiarism… UP.
Hearing several students say “I’m glad you’ll be teaching us another class after Christmas.”… UP.
Yesterday was a particularly interesting day that saw both ups and downs within the span of a few hours.
After lunch (of a full day class), I walked into a classroom full of angry, frustrated students. They’d just received some bad news about their program and the certification many of them hope to apply for after graduation. I’d planned to spend the afternoon playing a lighthearted game that fit with the day’s topic on writing persuasively, but with so much negative energy in the room, I knew there wasn’t much point… DOWN.
I set aside my plans for the afternoon, and offered the students the space and time to work through some of their frustration. Some strong words and a lot of emotion (including some tears) showed up in the room. I let it surface, and then (playing the role of facilitator rather than teacher) I tried to gently guide them in the direction of some positive action. They talked about how they could use the persuasive writing skills we’d talked about just that morning to try to change the situation they were in.
In a little over half an hour, they seemed ready to move on. Knowing it was a risk to move into a game with so much raw emotion in the room, and yet believing that it might be just the right thing to help diffuse the situation, I introduced the game. It was a version of the Dragon’s Den, where teams of 4 were each given a brown paper bag with a random item in it. They had to come up with creative ideas and persuasive language to convince the panel of “dragons” that they should invest in bringing that item to market. (I have my daughter Julie to thank for the idea.)
The game was more successful than I could have imagined. We laughed – a LOT. One group turned a seashell into an all-natural shaver. Another group had a frog business card holder that doubled as a cookie maker. A third group had a bag of incense that could calm your holiday stress and work as an aphrodisiac once the stress was gone. Another group had a small wooden container that worked as a weight loss device called “Fit it and eat it” – whatever you could fit into the container, you could eat. The last group had a toy that worked as a top, a stress reliever, or a hair accessory… UP
By the end of the day, students were leaving the class laughing and full of new resolve and maybe even a little bit of hope. One thanked me publicly for the afternoon, and several thanked me privately as they left the classroom.
It was one of those days that helped me remember what a privilege it is to be in a classroom with people as they learn and grow. I have no doubt that they learned more from the conversation that took place and the game that was played than they could have possibly learned from any lecture I might have done. (And certainly more than any exam they’ll write.) I also have no doubt that the group has become a stronger community than they were before.
The experience helped solidify my core values as a teacher. I value outside-the-box thinking. I value conversation. I value integrity. I value play. I value community. I value wholeheartedness. I value laughter. I value stories. I value transformative learning. I value risk-taking. I value collaboration. I value the unique wisdom and journey of each person in the room.
Though I sometimes resist the program restrictions placed on me, I am grateful that I have the opportunity to create space for the kind of learning and growth I believe in. It is an honour and a privilege to serve as a guide for the students who come to learn in my classroom.
by Heather Plett | Dec 8, 2011 | journey, writing
kilometre 99 on the Camino de Santiago
Behind this stone marker, at kilometre 99 on the Camino de Santiago in Spain, is a note for me. About a month ago, my friend Andrew left it there specially for me, hoping that some day when I walk the Camino, I’ll find it.
Even if I don’t find it – if weather or mice have destroyed it – it will feel special to stand in that spot knowing that Andrew thought of me while he was there. After walking approximately 701 kilometres, with what I’m certain were very sore feet, he took a moment to think a good thought for me and leave me a note.
It’s a great metaphor for life, isn’t it? It’s what most of us are doing when we reach out, when we do kind things for each other, when we write blog posts or books, or when we teach. We’re leaving little love notes for each other along the path saying “I made it to this place on the journey – I know you can too. I have hope for you.”
I want to live so that the notes I leave behind for those coming after me will offer courage and hope.
That’s why I’ll be spending most of December trying to finish my book. It feels important to finish it and put it out into the world. It’s a love letter to other pilgrims traveling paths similar to mine. It’s a way of saying “The path was hard, but I’m still walking. You can too.”
by Heather Plett | Dec 6, 2011 | Uncategorized
mementos left at a common grave for stillborn babies
I have become an intimate friend of grief.
As a young child, watching my grandfather die on the front lawn, I first came to know grief as the jagged, breathless song on my grandmother’s lips.
I have carried death in my womb and laboured with great sobs of agony while I birthed a child named Matthew and his siamese twin named Grief.
I have raced frantically across the prairies, a newly fatherless daughter, holding fresh grief like a dagger in my chest.
In the ditch where a storm washed away the blood of my father, I have fallen to my knees and cried out to a distant God who came to me only as Grief incarnate.
I have worn grief as my garment to three funerals in as many months – father, grandmother, uncle.
I have thrown rocks at grief when it threatened to suffocate me both times my beloved’s life hung on the thread he’d attempted to sever.
Grief has come to me as anger, as agony, as fear, as guilt, as a tender companion, as the milk in my unsuckled breasts, as colours on a canvas, as a poem, and as a collection of story threads in my overflowing basket. Grief is both wildly unpredictable and comfortably reliable. Grief pokes its head into my life when I least expect it or when it’s the most inconvenient and then goes into hiding when I’m sure it will be present.
Grief is not one emotion or one experience but many, many emotions, experiences, thoughts, waves, daggers, and physical manifestations.
Grief has been my enemy, my compass, my friend, my lover, my teacher, my poem, my muse, my dance partner, my task-master, and my spiritual director.
Grief is also my paintbrush, my pen, and my musical accompaniment. I have painted my grief, danced my grief, walked with my grief, made mandalas of my grief, painted grief on my body, photographed my grief, made collages out of the things that brought grief to my life, and found almost every creative way possible to metabolize and give shape and form to my grief. Grief is always near at hand when I am most honest in whatever art form I engage in.
Grief does not give us easy journeys. Grief throws rocks in our paths and takes away all the guideposts and maps. It refuses to show up in well-ordered stages along a straight path. Instead, it welcomes us to a tumultuous, chaotic dance.
Without a roadmap for our grief, sometimes the best thing we can reach for is a trusted guide… someone who understands the dance of grief and knows that no two dance partners are the same. Someone who will help us find the practices that will best strengthen and encourage us along our own unique paths.
This past year, I have had many conversations about grief with my trusted friend, Cath Duncan. She is a student of grief, in the best possible way. She understands it on a deep cellular level and has walked the path of it as a true and honest pilgrim. She has studied it like a grief archeologist and scholar, determined to find meaning in what she unearths.
The same can be said about Kara Jones, whose creative work around grief is both breath-taking and challenging.
Together, Kara and Cath have developed a beautiful new program called Creative Grief Coaching Certification, where people in helping professions can learn more about how to support people in grief. I believe in this program wholeheartedly and am thrilled to be one of the guest lecturers who will help participants learn more about how to equip people with creative processes to engage with along the grief journey.
Cath and Kara understand the complexity and nuances of grief. They also understand the importance of seeing grief as a creative process that will transform us if we invite it in. I believe they are just the right people to be offering this beautiful gift to the world.
If you want to learn more about grief, and you believe you have a gift for serving as a creative grief coach, please check it out.
