I have two occupations, the confluence of which continues to
startle and thrill me. I am an educator
and a professional improvising pianist.
I have taught in public school classrooms, grades 1 through 6, for
nearly 20 years. This past year, I
was a school principal, a job that fused many of the approaches and strategies that
had proved so successful to me in helping children to find their deeper selves,
both as learners and as members of a classroom community.
As an improvising musician, I have, in the last few years,
moved from jazz to free improvisation.
In jazz, I worked within a composed form, a key center, a set of chord
changes, generating spontaneous melodic lines on piano that stayed within the
harmonic and temporal framework of the given song. In free improvisation on the other hand, I am not
constrained by form, keys, chords, or familiar physical techniques for
producing sound. I surrender fully
to intuition, that rare gift bestowed on
us by this living planet. The
musical expressions that spring from this sort of intuition, while often
unusual in sound, are nonetheless refined by years of practice and
training. So while this kind of
music is not predictable or familiar, it is delivered through a deliberate
aesthetic, and a honed technique which keeps it from sounding random.
It is my belief that music –and in particular the improvised
forms- is a language of the Earth.
In the pulsing, breathing, sentient planet, there is an energy which
expresses itself in myriad ways, from the blooming flowers, to the graceful
movements of animals, to the flowing shapes of mountains against sky, to the
whisperings of the stream as it cascades over rock-laden dips and turns. Earth constantly expresses a profoundly
healing message, and the great human art forms –poetry, painting, teaching,
music, loving, dance, drama, etc. –these are all in the business of expressing
this Language of the Earth, through the trained human animal. The more authentic and uninhibited the
artist, and the more deliberate and engendered the training, the more luxurious
the expression. Earth is speaking
through us, and it is most potent in its message when the artist is not just
trained, but also able to move past expectation, ego, competition,
self-criticism and analysis, surrendering instead to intuition, honesty, trust,
spontaneity and integrity. It is
an amazing thing to experience this kind of pure art, which communicates with
our deepest knowingness. This has
less to do with artist and appreciator, and everything to do with an energy
moving through the two, an energy always flowing from the earth through living
forms, ideas, and experiences, though often invisible or unseen.
For me, intuition is something we inherit because we are
human. It springs from, and then
validates our personal genius. It
comes through our bones, and is unambiguous. Intuition is a living instruction, a direct impulse, an
unflagging certainty to move, act, instruct, intend. As a teacher, I have been witness to the power of intuition
to heal, to solve, to unravel, to reveal, to propel. In the teacher-to-student dynamic, intuition plays a pivotal
role in what Michael Meade and Malidoma Some call “genius to genius
mentoring.” A mentor is first and
foremost a fearless advocate for the genius of the mentee. A mentor sees the gift, trusts its
inevitable purpose, calls forth its revelation, and quietly celebrates the
child or young person for the integrity and value of this embodied gift. Unlike parents, mentors are especially
believable because they have no agenda or bias. Mentors play a pivotal role in
guiding the entire human living and growing project through its myriad
transitions. Parents are
guardians, protectors, and nurturers.
Mentors recognize and expressly welcome the gift in the one mentored,
and celebrate its emergence. A
society without viable mentoring can become wildly pathological. Youth, who crave mentoring most
conspicuously in the great moment of transition to adult, will apprentice
themselves to whatever teachers they can find, and do this most
unwittingly. Whether the guide is
a packaged media message, a coalition of online gamers, a dogmatic political or
religious cause, or a slightly-older and visibly edgier peer, young people will
not attempt the transition without some degree of surrender to a trusted
authority. Culture cannot evolve
in the absence of authentic mentors, and no entity nor person can successfully
replace a conscientious and aged person to fill that role. For millennia, our species and our
cultures have evolved in response to the mentoring tutelage of genuine elders
as they engage youth, and breath the Language of the Earth into these young
souls.
As a teacher, I do not simply parlay state standardized
academic content. Hardly. I mentor, and I do this with
intuition.
So where has intuition taken me as a teacher? When I moved into 6th grade
(after several years in early elementary classrooms), I began to hear an
ancient calling emerging through the fabric of my growing connections with
these early adolescents. Before
teaching, I had studied anthropology, culling a BA and an MA in prehistoric
studies and applied medical anthropology respectively. I had acquired in the process both a
respect for and strong intuitive sense of the ways of indigenous peoples. I had also traveled a good bit, even spending
time among the Shipibo Indians of the Amazon. The gift of these studies and travels was that I became
fascinated with my life as a 21st century homo sapiens who had
descended from nomadic tribespeople.
With my 6th graders, I began to perceive the need to become
their tribal elder, and to teach them about our prehistoric past. We would create elaborate outdoor
timelines that stretched for thousands of feet, and which revealed visually our
remarkable inheritance as indigenous people who spent 99% of our social history
living in wild nature. On one
mile-long ‘timeline’ that meandered through the local hills, the beginning was
marked by the first upright human ancestors. As we walked the course of this timeline, we invented stone
tools, made fire, and –in just the last three meters- discovered farming.
With my 6th graders, I felt called to get deeply
seriously about nature immersion and ritual connections. My school at that time was located
adjacent to several thousand acres of State Park. Drawing on something I remembered from books by Carlos
Casteneda about ‘sit spots,’ I told my students to walk about carefully by
carefreely, waiting for the earth to call them to a spot. Once this happened, they were to commit
to returning to that same spot each time we hiked, sitting in that place and
becoming open to the winds, the shadows, the living sounds, the feelings. In addition to sit spots, I encouraged
my students to walk in silence, focusing first on what they saw, delivering all
attention with all their will, onto the images cascading about their eyes. Watching not just the flicker of
shadows, the movement of leaves, but also to notice that expanse of vision, the
periphery as well as the things in the focus range of the eyes. I later asked them to attend fully to
the sounds they were hearing, the winds, the footsteps of classmates, the birds
of the sky. We would move from one
sense to another, and then we would try to bring two senses together. We often walked in a large circle in a
clearing to practice this. First
eyes, then ears, then skin and feet, then nose and mouth. I talked to them about the linear mind,
that cognitive tool honed in our 21st century world, this fabulous
machine which when in full swing, trumps the senses entirely. I cautioned them to notice when their
thinking brain was spreading words across the imagination. I told them how our tribal ancestors
had learned to live in the mythical right hemisphere, the sensory apparatuses
fully engaged, how their survival was predicated on such illuminatory
awareness, and how this capacity had eroded over centuries of post-agricultural
living in alienation from wild nature, and yet how this gift of being full
alert in nature was something waiting dormant in our bones, fully ready to spring
to life again with even modest attention and will.
My 6th graders responded deeply to these ideas
and practices, which served as the cornerstone of community building in my
classroom over nearly 7 years. On
the last day of school, many times, our closing council was full of tears and
sadness, as students wondered where they would find community like this again.
I told them that they were warriors of a new way of being, that they would
carry community everywhere they went, creating it anew because they had felt it
deeply, and understood intuitively how that kind of connectedness mattered
most.
I have been transported by the curious muse we call
intuition, this uncanny and delightful power that propels my creativity,
speaking a language much older than any of us. The word itself, ‘intuition,’ is treated a bit awkwardly in
Present World, seen as the odd stepchild of linear cognition, or perhaps even
as a wanderer from some far-away clan who may come to visit for the
solstice. We don’t give intuition serious
attention, because it seems to have no source, no roots nor grounding. It’s either there or it isn’t. Ideas, on the other hand, are
considered the result of careful thinking, in turn the product of
schooling. Intuition is a sort of
‘unseen’ entity, and what we can’t see, we don’t take too seriously, at least
not in general public discourse.
I am delighted by intuition. I am mesmerized by the force that wells up in a quieted
mind, in an impassioned yet attentive moment. Intuition can become a seed of tremendous action and
ideation. We rarely notice that
ideas are born of intuition, not thought.