An Apology To Stephen Hawking

photo courtesy Jack Allan

In April 2009 I wrote a futuristic verse. It was a contribution to meet
Bud the Teacher’s deal to write a poem a day for the whole of that month. The verse looked only a little way into our possible future.

In the last stanza I predicted that Stephen Hawking might never have had a chance to say what I assumed had been running through his mind.

“It’s been a long time since Cataclysm.
They said in the beginning it might be
quite a journey. And so we are all here
in one form or another. No one knew
it would be so simple to start it off.

Even Fermi didn’t, though more than most
he had the insight. ‘So where are they all?’
was what he put to them, knowing full well!

Fermi? He’s over by the supernova.
Can’t get him away from it. Addicted
they say – he always was fanatical.
Apparently he was among the first
to congratulate Hawking when he got here.

Hawking knew all along of course. It was
only a matter of time. And before
he let it all out it was far too late.”

I may have been wrong about Stephen's timeliness. I hope I was.
If so, I offer him my sincerest apology.



Let’s hope that Stephen’s advice is timely, to assist us to survive so our successors can tell a different tale a few hundred years from now.

Compassion - What I Learnt About Fishing

As a child, I was never aware of any real ability I had, other than to get into mischief or catch cold. I discovered these rich talents early on. Even as a ten year old, I bumbled along with no appreciation of any real capabilities I might have had as a human being.

My grandfather used to take me fishing. I got a buzz from the wonderfully natural places we visited. My head got filled with the summer sounds and scenery of these spots. But I was hopeless at catching a fish, having too much compassion for the poor hapless creature to get any enjoyment from the event.

I recall stabbing my finger with a fishhook, being more astonished at how easily the needle-sharp device entered the tissue than the searing pain it caused. It stuck firmly, deep in my fingertip.

My grandfather was annoyed and looked at me sternly for a moment. He fumbled in the pocket of his fishing jacket and took out a small pair of pliers, holding them tightly in his hand.

With his other hand, he grabbed mine and lifted the injured finger so high that my shoulder hurt. I watched to see what he would do.
I thought he might pull out the hook with his pliers but I was too dumb and curious to close my eyes and brace myself.

He deftly pinched the hook in the jaws of the pliers and gave it a powerful and sudden twist. What I saw made my eyes pop.

Contrary to what I’d hoped, he didn’t pull out the hook. Instead, the business end of it reappeared through the tip of my finger – a tiny fluted barb, tinged with the blood that dripped from the newly pierced hole.

Grandfather carefully snipped off the barb with his pliers and swiftly pulled out the remains of the hook. He explained that the barb would have torn my finger apart if he'd remove it the same way it went in.

As I held my sore finger, wrapped tightly in a piece of bandage,
I reflected on what it might be like for a poor fish who unwittingly takes the bait.

I stood beside a brooklet, that sparkled on its way,
and there beneath the wavelets, a tiny trout at play,
as swiftly as an arrow, he darted to and fro,
the gayest of the fishes among the reeds below,
the gayest of the fishes among the reeds below.

Angler there was standing, with rod and line in hand,
Intent upon the fishes, a sportive fearless band,
“`tis vain” said I “good neighbour, to fish a brooklet clear”
The fish will surely see you upon the bank so near.
The fish will surely see you upon the bank so near.

But skillful was the angler, and artful too,
The crystal brooklets depths defying, he hid the fish from view, and then he skill renewing,
the fishes unheeding took the bait,
and I was left lamenting, my tiny troutlet’s fate,
and I was left lamenting, my tiny troutlet’s fate.

Video - The Trout
 
Daniel Barenboim, Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman, Jacqueline du Pré and Zubin Mehta

November

It’s New Zealand’s last month of spring for 2009.

When I started blogging, one of the things I became attuned to was the sheer upside-downness of the rest of the world – compared to where I live, that is.

In the first few months, it was customary for me to wait overnight for the wave of blog comments to wash across a new post from countries other than those in the South Pacific, if it happened at all.

Most activity I observe on my blog takes place after daylight. Of course, there are always exceptions. There are nocturnal bloggers throughout the world and some who seem to be active 24/7!

Unsurprisingly, most people do not consider the time zones across the world when it comes to blogging. Last year I posted a Middle-earth time widget in my side-bar to help with this.

The academic year

There is as much disparity of alignment across the world when considering the education cycle. How many countries can enjoy an academic year that begins in January or early February and finishes in December? How many countries can claim that the (actual) year starts and finishes in summer?

The upside-downness prevails when reflecting on the seasons. While Canada was in summer New Zealand was steeped in mid-winter. Now, as Kiwiland warms towards summer, starting officially on 1 December, Britain chills into winter.

I receive regular communication from people overseas who are amused and surprised at the seasonal differences – till they think about the global cycles. It’s not something that can be easily summarised in a chart, for the seasons in each country progress and change.

video of northern hemisphere seasons (check out amazing videos)

November in New Zealand starts me dreaming of summer.

The hazy balmy days have come in fast,
A garden-loose late-blooming tulip yawns,
Limp petals soft from drooping roses cast,
And daisies flourish on the feathered lawns;
A cicada wakes from the nymphal sleep
Then sheds the fragile nut-brown pupal shell,
And so begins its steady skyward creep
To chant the long percussive choric spell;
The karo's darkened pods crack and expose
The cloying seed in clusters set to fall,
A blackbird swoops down keen to interpose
And sing his warbling chronicle to all;
With these the days I long for have begun,
The warm and lazy summer days of sun.

related post - > ( 1 )

Taupo

photo courtesy Jack Allan

Paul C's GPS theme for July is simple: "reflect upon a time when nature provided you with comfort, beauty, or inspiration."

In the centre of North Island, New Zealand, rests one of the world’s largest extinct volcanoes. About 26,500 years ago, the volcano erupted, ejecting over 1,170 cubic kilometres of material.

Over time, a series of smaller eruptions occurred, including the Hatepe eruption in the year 180. It was the most violent eruption of any volcano in recorded history. What remained after that cataclysm was a caldera that filled with water to become what we now know as Lake Taupo.

I visited Lake Taupo with my family in April 2004. We were privileged to stay at my wife’s aunt’s cottage on the northern shore of the lake, literally a stone’s throw from the waterside.

One afternoon, while returning from a walk along the lake shore,
I scribbled a dozen or so lines of verse. Here, after some minor tinkering, is the essence of what I wrote:

Taupo

The land was green once more before the lake
Was deep, its contours filled too well to mark
A place by: layer upon layer of ash-cake.
No bird looped near the waves that scoured the dark
And sintered shore-line. Fire had signed its will
And held its peace. And but for some release
At vents and fumaroles, the land was still,
With Earth and Sky well set to take their ease.
A crystal lake in a crystalline setting;
A billion waves; a billion inheritors.
No way is it a seeing and forgetting;
Truly, it’s a beauty fit for royalty.
Its enriched and well privileged visitors
Stand in awe of Taupo, and bow in fealty!

video and photos courtesy Jack Allan

A Green Pen Society contribution

Winter Solstice

Today is the shortest day.
Despite the post date, the time of publishing is Sunday 21 June 2009, New Zealand.

This time of year, some creatures hibernate. Many travel to the equator. Others consume what they’d hoarded in time of abundance. The last reserves begin to fade, like dying embers in a cooling fireplace.

My thoughts move to a phase of reflection. Hibernation becomes more understandable. Resourcefulness is a priority.

My skin puckers in a light wind. I begin to look out warm thoughts with the thick socks and woolly singlets.

Memories of spring mature with age. I look for jonquils in the scrub.
A few nod for me to accept their friendly arrival and shake out their piquant scent.

I write haiku, and chide myself for still thinking of winter.

The chill that's winter
blows a hole in the wood-pile
I stacked in summer.

Ah! Summer! Do you think the birds will come when it’s here?
They’re silent now. Will the sweet blackbird sing for us again?
Will grey warblers warble at noon? Will fantails twitter at sunset?

Radiating possibility. That’s it.
Perish a notion of winter.
Cherish warm thought till spring.

Of all the pleasure gardens bring,
The handsome pied Red Admiral
Must touch the zenith of the spring
With form and grace ephemeral;

To see these patterned wings full spread
In all but a fleeting glance,
Fine lace veil in feathered thread,
Enraptured eyes in trance

Will follow with a languid gaze
The soft hypnotic flutter,
Through the soporific haze,

Near honey scented bower,
Gliding with a liquid ease
Above the blood-red wallflower.

Countdown. Nearly two months to go.

( 2 ) < - related post

For The Love Of Words!

Bud the Teacher made a deal, it being National Poetry month in US.

He has run a series of prompts on his blog this month, encouraging me, among others, to write a verse a day. I don’t normally splash the verse I write all over a post. But then the ‘word’ is one of my interests.

It being the year of astronomy, here are all the bits of verse that Bud coaxed out of me so far that have a particular cosmic element to them, and a few that are of themes closer to home:

In less time than it takes to say the word
A whole universe came into being.

One, two, three
wrote Gamow,
or more exact
Gamov,
from big bang
to tomorrow,
atomic fact
was off
beyond the
vicinity
of Gamov’s
infinity.

What it is to feel

soft sand under foot,

waves lapping at ankle,

warm sun on back.


Where else in the universe

is there rich pleasure as this?

“It’s been a long time since Cataclysm.

They said in the beginning
it might be quite a journey.
And so we are all here
in one form or another.
No one knew
it would be so simple to start it off.

Even Fermi didn’t, though more than most
he had the insight. ‘So where are they all?’
was what he put to them, knowing full well!

Fermi?
He’s over by the supernova.
Can’t get him away from it.
Addicted they say.
He always was fanatical.
Apparently he was among
the first to congratulate Hawking
when he got here.

Hawking knew all along of course.
It was only a matter of time.
And before he let it all out,
it was far too late.”

“Another crumpled Golden Kiwi ticket!
Jackpot’s 9.5 million this week.
Chance would be a fine thing.”

“Now that’s what I call lucky.
There’s a car with registration 319WXG!
What's the chance of seeing that?”

“Talk about flukes.
Looked up at the sky last night.
Saw two satellites crossing within,
well, millimetres.”

“Just think.
Of all the galaxies in the cosmos,
by sheer coincidence,
we happen to be right here.”

“You and I.”

“Better get another Golden Kiwi ticket.”

In the arid heat there’s nothing so dear
as water to a parchment tongue.

Nothing so peaceful in a cool evening
than the rippling lake in summer.

What is it about crystal clear water
That turns a tired mind from dull task?

Through the ages we got by
with a few basic tools,

fewer that even a child might use,
and for the same purpose:

a scrap of paper -
a bundle of crayons;

once shown how to use them
creativity needs no prompt.

Of cleanliness,
they got it right,
the marine tropicals.

I mean
the little fish
like Nemo,
in finding the same.

They just can’t hack the filth.
Enterprising aquarists,
to their cost,
found that out.

Yes, it’s to be pristine,
that’s the word,
like the clear crystal
water
they thrive in.

You can tell
as you look
through the
blue water
it’s clear
the fish are
in their element.

“Can I have a scissor please?”

“A what?”

“A scissor.”

“We only sell them in pairs.”

“I’ll have two scissors please.”

Māori Culture And Legend

Māui and his brothers taming the sun - The Marae, Te Papa Museum of New Zealand

Māori tradition is steeped in folklore. It is a culture I have much respect for and I see strong similarities with the Celtic traditions in Scotland, the land of my birth. I’d like to share with you some of the aspects of Māori culture and folklore that are significant to me.

The section I belong to at The Correspondence School (TCS) is called Poutama. We chose this name when restructuring began, with the regionalisation of TCS early last year. I feel privileged to belong to a wonderful section of teachers in Poutama. I’m very proud of our name which comes from the name for an ancient Māori wall design.

Poutama

The Poutama design is a type of tukutuku, a traditional Māori art form. They form part of visual storytelling in Māori culture.

Tukutuku are decorative woven or carved panels that are part of the traditional wall construction used inside Māori meeting houses.


In ancient lore, poutama symbolises an ascent made by the folk hero Tawhaki (pronounced tafaki) to receive the three baskets (kete) of knowledge from the gods.

They are:

• te kete-aronui - basket of knowledge that helps us,
  
• te kete-tuauri - basket of knowledge to do with ritual, memory and prayer,
  
• te kete-tuatea - basket of knowledge of evil or makutu, harmful to us.

The interpretation of the word poutama is one who protects and supports his family sub-tribe and tribe, as in a chief or rangatira.

The construction of poutama symbolises the steps to progress in education and the endeavour to improve - the planning of a child's future - by parents, family and tribe. It is believed to be the ultimate mark of a leader.

The legends of Māui

I have always had a fascination for folk legends. Most Māori legends possess a strong principled or educational aspect. Perhaps this is why I found the legends in Māori folklore particularly absorbing.

Among some of the most attractive are the tales about the Māori half-god, Māui, who was abandoned at birth and later reunited with his family. Māui is depicted with his four brothers in the photo at the head of this post.

Here is how I tell the legend of Māui, how he was eventually reunited with his mother and family, and given his name.

Māui-tikitiki-a-Taranga
Māui wrapped in the topknot of Taranga

Little Māui, baby Māui,
Wrapped all in the tikitiki,
Sleeping on the white wet sand.

Swept the wind up on the beaches,
Swept the ripples, swept the tide-spray,
Hair and seaweed tied the bundle,
Lightly tied the bundle neatly.

Swathed in seaweed, bathed in sea-spray,
Lifted by the tide-wave gently,
Buoyed up on the foamy bubbles,
On he slept as waves were bobbing,
Poor unwanted baby Māui,
Bobbing out to sea.



Still he slept, the little Māui,
As the cruel and hungry sea-birds
Watched the bundle gently rocking,
Rocking on the sea.

Then the kindly sky-god Rangi
Saw the hungry sea-birds hover,
Hover near the baby Māui,
Bobbing out to sea.

Swiftly Rangi hailed the mountains,
Mountains with their white hair gathered,
Gathering the white hair rolling,
Rolling out to sea.

Swift they lifted little Māui,
Lifted on the plumes of white hair,
Hair twined with the tikitiki
High above the sea.



There the kindly Rangi raised him,
Taught him all his wondrous magic,
Set him on the rolling white sand,
Wet sand where Taranga left him.

Then the old man Tama met him,
Took him as his son, his own son,
Told him of his four fine brothers,
Told him of their mother's homeland.

Showed him all he knew as nature,
Where the streams run fast and steeply,
How the bees hive, how they gather,
How the birds dive, how they hover,
Where the fish swim fast and fleetly,
All that he had known.



Then the youthful Māui learning of the homeland,
Yearning for the brothers living with their mother dear,
Left the old man Tama by the rolling white sand,
Crossed the western hills to the wooded plain so near.

Lightly fell the footstep quieter than the silence,
Slipping like a shadow through the shady underwood,
Entering the whare in the family's presence,
Past the smoking fire to where the pitiless mother stood.

Presently Taranga called on all her young ones,
Called on them to join her around the smoking fire,
Counting as they joined hands, counting she had five sons,
Four sons and a strange one dressed in strange attire.



Holding near a fire-brand to the littlest brother
Taranga leaned forward and asked from where he came,
Māui said 'I'm Māui, and you are my own mother',
'These four are my brothers and Taranga's your name'.

Little Māui told them what old Tama told him
Of the baby Māui laid asleep upon the sand:
Shrouded in the seaweed, chilly crown and cold limb,
Rescue, and the sea-birds, and kindly Rangi's hand.

Māui named his brothers and told them all their secrets,
'You are our little Māui!' cried Taranga,
Clasped him to her breast as her hair hung round in ringlets,
Named him little Māui-tikitiki-a-Taranga.

Many other Māori legends can be found on the Māori in Oz site.

This April is National Poetry month in the US.

I have been hopping across to Bud the Teacher and attempting to invoke the muse. It is a wonderful site and Bud is prompting us to write some poetry every day this month.

If you are poetically inclined and would like to write a line or three,
I encourage you to nip across to Bud’s site. Go on. Give opportunity to your muse.

Twelve Days Of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the second day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the third day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the fourth day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
four wicked wikis,
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the fifth day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
five Open-Nings!
four wicked wikis,
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the sixth day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
six Skypers Skyping,
five Open-Nings!
four wicked wikis,
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the seventh day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
seven Seesmics screaming,
six Skypers Skyping,
five Open-Nings!
four wicked wikis,
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the eighth day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
eight Delicious bookmarks,
seven Seesmics screaming,
six Skypers Skyping,
five Open-Nings!
four wicked wikis,
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the ninth day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
nine Diggers Digging,
eight Delicious bookmarks,
seven Seesmics screaming,
six Skypers Skyping,
five Open-Nings!
four wicked wikis,
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the tenth day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
ten Google searchings,
nine Diggers Digging,
eight Delicious bookmarks,
seven Seesmics screaming,
six Skypers Skyping,
five Open-Nings!
four wicked wikis,
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the eleventh day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
eleven widgets wandering,
ten Google searchings,
nine Diggers Digging,
eight Delicious bookmarks,
seven Seesmics screaming,
six Skypers Skyping,
five Open-Nings!
four wicked wikis,
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme.

On the twelfth day of Christmas
my browser brought to me
twelve bloggers blogging,
eleven widgets wandering,
ten Google searchings,
nine Diggers Digging,
eight Delicious bookmarks,
seven Seesmics screaming,
six Skypers Skyping,
five Open-Nings!
four wicked wikis,
three permalinks,
two Wordle blimps
and a tagged comment in a Twitter meme!

To all my great friends - bloggers, commenters, followers, visitors and mates, have a great time over the festive season.

Thanks for all your support and help. I really have appreciated being with you all this year.

Seeds Of Change

When is a poem not a poem
And verse runs into prose?
When is a home not a home
And strife contemptuous grows?
The Differential Calculus
Defines the least derivative
Of increments too small for us
In subtle terms definitive,
But the myriad seeds of change that fall
By each gradation's measure
Differentiate the large from tall,
The enjoyment from the pleasure;
If this sonnet is not proved true,
I've never judged, nor yet have you.

Kim Cofino is a twenty-first century literacy specialist at the International School Bangkok in Thailand. In her post What Is Literacy, she speaks of attempts to understand the “shift in literacy, especially considering that many people still believe that literacy is solely being able to read and write in printed form.”

She cites the Becta reports and the McArthur Report as concrete research-based examples “that would help people outside the educational technology field better understand this shift.” She also asks for our thoughts on the concept of literacy.

I put a comment against her post:

We go round in circles with this today - but one could say, 'twas ever thus.

When I was taught (English) literacy in the 60s, we had a teacher who honestly believed that if a word was not to be found in the dictionary, it didn't exist. Many English teachers (of the old school) believed this.

I was not very well educated in those days (that's why I was at school) but even I could figure that the words in the dictionary weren't always like that - we were taught this in the English class! Shakespeare, for instance, used a strange diction and some strange words. My question was, 'whatever happened to those?'

Today we have all sorts of problems with examination authorities who eschew mobile text language, especially in English examinations. And I wonder.

Recently I re-read The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson and was again delighted to find reference to a book that I'd read, 40 years ago, by Simeon Potter, Our Language (first published in 1950).

In both books the message was clear: language, and the ways that it is communicated, are living things. They react sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly, like swarms of bees, always on the move.

Literacy clearly has an association with symbolism. I think it is a far cry to say that literacy is only to do with the power of speech or the skills associated with that. Yet, without speech, the symbolism of 'literature', whether it is Shakespeare's script, or a text message using the symbols of that medium, would have no relevance.

Sign language, no less a language than any other, also has its base in symbolism - involving signs and actions. But it is really more like the spoken language, for it is not designed to represent the written words and often simply does not follow those.

Literacy is bound to the spoken language AND the written symbolisms that represent the language. A person who is incapable of writing, because of some physical disability, is no less literate than someone who is not disabled but who does not know how to write. But you would agree that there may be a difference. For instance, the able person who does not know how to write may not be able to read either. Not necessarily the person with the disability who cannot write.

So literacy can have many facets. We need to define these more explicitly. I gather that the visions we may have of these definitions change as much as language does.

It eventually comes down to opinion, either that of the individual or of the authorities. And to have any acceptable measure of literacy, by whatever means it is metered, requires standards.

Unfortunately, this is where it becomes set in a way that doesn't really fit the nature of language. So standards must be continually revised to meet the needs of society and its understanding of literacy.

Which brings us back to the question. My gut feeling is that we are chasing a moving spot of light. As quickly as we have defined where it is and mapped its shape, it has moved on.


The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

from Edward Fitzgerald's 'Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam'.

Base Words Are Uttered

Base words are uttered only by the base
And can for such at once be understood,
But noble platitudes:--ah, there’s a case
Where the most careful scrutiny is needed
To tell a voice that’s genuinely good
From one that’s base but merely has succeeded.

Wystan Hugh Auden.

I like to let a draft post cure a day or so before publishing it. Quite frequently, after this time, some drafts get the heave. This one was lucky. But I’m sure many will feel it should have joined the reject pile, along with a few others I've posted.

Gina Mink’s post, and her own reply to it, got me thinking – about all sorts of things. Apart from the bother I had getting a comment, with a link, onto her post, perhaps the time spent attempting to do this allowed me to think more about how I write posts.

Is my approach unique?

I wondered if my approach is one often used by others. I’m aware that the twenty-first century culture that is held by some bloggers, is such that most do not dwell on the crafting. To them, getting the message across is where it’s at. I’ve no problem with that.

I study poetry. I enjoy reading the skilled writing of others. From time to time, I come across blogs that are well written – almost crafted, and I can only admire those.

The Fire And The Anvil:

I recently re-read a wonderful little book by New Zealand’s celebrated poet James K Baxter. The Fire and the Anvil is a brilliant series of lectures. They are about the product of poets whose craft is forged in the fire of the creative mind. It's then hammered into shape by feedback from critics that alters the way the poets write. It is a reflective practice that involves the writing, the poets and their audience.

Much though I would like to bash out a post and publish it in ten minutes, I can’t often do this. Too often I want to go back and alter things. Some call it stuffing mushrooms.

I might even change a word or two after a post is published - almost heresy in some circles. Dave Ferguson has crafted a few posts on and around the topic of editing posts.

But from the moment I think about a post, I am aware that I’m following much of the process that Baxter refers to in his book:

The World Of Thou:

It “denotes the whole various world of relationship where being meets being.”

The Matrix:

“The primal substance of the” post, “non-verbal, which the verbal structure” of the post reflects – “its point of contact with the world of Thou.”

The Form:

“The whole complex verbal pattern” which the writer creates in response to the matrix.

Incubation:

Baxter’s period of gestation, “during which the matrix is carried obscurely in the mind”, is not unlike how the substance of the post is thought about before anything is entered through the keyboard or other interface.

Texture and Time-life:

These have their counterparts in the diction and crafting used by the writer. Sentence length and construction, the way each sentence sits with the paragraph, and paragraph length, are parameters that expert bloggers tell us are important to writing good blog posts.

All of these parts of the post writing process have closely corresponding items in Baxter’s sequence.

The crafting and how it helps me:

For me the crafting is part of the reflective practice of writing a post. It’s not just the diction and the paragraphing. It’s to do with the thought processes that lead up to that.

Ken Stewart wrote a post Why Do You Write. It prompted me to write a comment which I later copied with little alteration and put it in a post. This was one of the few times I posted without crafting. But it had the essence of why I write, how I write and all of what’s in it for me.

• Writing helps me organise my thoughts.
  
  
• Prioritising those sparks further thought.
  
  
• Organising what I write puts to rest serendipitous thought-threads.

When these are processed through exhaustive cycles of writing and editing, it is as if the thoughts are put to rest. I can sleep on them.

More reflective practice:

There’s more to blogging than just writing exhaustively edited posts – I’m trying to avoid those. Lately I’ve made use of action research as a means to develop my way of writing posts.

While I have not yet used blogging specifically as a teaching tool, it has helped me organise my thoughts about how I teach. This in itself is powerful reflective practice.

Of course, action research is reflective practice. It can be widely applied to more or less any people-related activity. And like it or not, writing a post is a people-related activity.

related posts - >> ( 8 ) ( 7 ) ( 6 ) ( 5 ) ( 4 ) ( 3 ) ( 2 ) ( 1 )

Never Fear Big Words

photo by Mike Wood.

I attended an asTTle workshop last week. Assessment Tools for Teaching and Learning - He Pūnaha Aromatawai mō te Whakaako me te Ako, or asTTle, is a resource for assessing literacy and numeracy (in both English and Māori). The University of Auckland developed it for the New Zealand Ministry of Education.

A helpful system:

Though the idea of assessing the reading level of a child was not new to me, I hadn’t realised how the asTTle system worked. It’s based on the concept that knowledge of the reading ability of a child can assist in providing specific help when needed.

By providing appropriate assistance, the child is empowered to better understand the reading material relevant to the levels of learning they're at in different subject areas. The teacher is also better able to understand the reading difficulties a child may have while learning at levels of their ability and development in different curricular areas.

I have no problem with this, other than the intervention caused by assessment to establish where every child is at, through entire areas of the curriculum. I think it’s wonderful that we can provide assistance when it is needed.

Levels of literacy:

I had several discussions with the facilitators. They were very helpful.

We did not agree when I explain that, as a writer of learning resources, I used the simplest possible language, sentence construction and paragraphing whenever I could. I used the same technique in writing a paragraph in a Chemistry resource for a year 13 learner than I would for a resource in Biology for a year 9 learner.

Their advice was that I should match the reading level of my writing to the subject level. We had several aside discussions on this – they weren’t simple. We agreed that the language of the subject was obviously something that would progress, as expected, in shifting from a lower learning level to a higher level.

What the facilitators found fault with, was that I deliberately used simple language. Even using the terms and vocabulary appropriate to the area and level of the Science covered in the resource I was writing, was not meeting the needs of the student, by their way of it.

The purpose of writing:

My question to them was, “what is my main objective as a writer of Science?" Should I deliberately change an otherwise well written paragraph, so that its reading level matched the level of the subject content contained there? I was at odds with this supposition. What’s more, it conflicted with all I’d read on Cathy Moore’s great post.

I recalled a poem by Arthur Kudner, while I listened to the arguments from the facilitator.

Never fear big words.
Big words mean little things.
All big things have little names,
Such as life and death, peace and war,
Or dawn, day, night, hope, love, home.
Learn to use little words in a big way.
It is hard to do,
But they say what you mean.
When you don’t know what you mean,
Use big words –
They often fool little people.