Womb

I asked a class how they felt about slope fields before I gave them their assignment today.

“Honestly at first I was little confused. So I just watched the video again!”

Then I got a text from another student: “Would it be ok if I watched tomorrow night’s lesson since we don’t have a lesson tonight?”

Twist my arm.

Pacing, man. Or woman.

The agency to work at your own pace, to slow down and to speed up—to take ownership of your own growth as a mathematician…I just don’t know that I’ll ever stop singing this gospel. How the darkness of this year produced possibly the most impactful change I have ever made to my teaching is still incredible to me.

As one of my favorite authors says: maybe it’s not the darkness of the tomb…maybe it’s the darkness of the womb.

And in the womb’s darkness, we grow.

I don’t always feel like I’m growing. Especially this year, sometimes I just want to crawl into bed and say, “Wake me up when I can hug my kids again. Tell me when it’s all over. Tell me when I won’t be getting daily emails of which kids are sick and which are quarantined. Tell me when my kids can see my full smile and I can see theirs.”

And then other days—rare days—I think, “I will be a much better teacher because of this god awful year.”

May we be still in our darkness. May we recognize it for what it is. But may we emerge stronger than before—a bit bruised perhaps, but still holding our heads high in the pride that we did it. And we grew from it.