Learning is Change

Question 204 of 365: When do we almost die?

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rhizoming the vanishing lines . .
Image by jef safi via Flickr

It strikes me that we almost die far more often than we actually do.

Most of the days that I drive to work I think about what it would be like if I made an enormous right turn into oncoming traffic or into the highway median. I don’t think that this is morbid or abnormal, rather I believe that it is a healthy part of me staying alive. If I can envision the crumpled minivan on the side of the road, I can avoid it . If I can see exactly how it would flip and wrap around a tree, I know that my family is safe. I can almost die in my head hundreds of times.

I live in a place that feels safe. The only people I see outside in the neighborhood are kids and parents, playing with toys and basketballs and bicycles. I see people walking and running, too. I see tended yards, except for mine. I see people wave. I’m sure that all of this seeming safety is an illusion, but I take it because it keeps me almost dead, rather than entirely dead much more often.

I am passive when it comes to confrontation. I would take pretty much any route there is to avoid a fight. I stay alive tyhrough this process. To put it another way: I almost die in every conversation, but somehow I manage to avoid it. It’s not to say that I deal with a lot of violent people, but anything can become a fight. Anything.

Whether by accident or intentional behavior, I have managed to stay alive since I was born. It is a streak that is unmatched by anyone younger than me. There are so many things that could kill me, but so far I have managed to escape each one. Sickness hasn’t done it, nor has being impaled on anything overly sharp. I don’t intend on being beaten to death or splattering to the grown after a wrongly orchestrated bungee jump. All of these things will be almost deaths for me and I will treasure them. For as long as they remain as such, I don’t have anything to worry about.

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Question 203 of 365: Should writing be harder?

The Semantic Web Stack.
Image via Wikipedia

Access to information never gets old.

I coveted it when all I could access was the universal search on AOL. I still covet it now that nearly every good piece of information comes directly to me through the various networks I take part in and blogs I read.

I will never get over having knowledge at my fingertips. It is intoxicating. I have to remember almost nothing on my own. All of the good things I read and experience are saved for later in online bookmarks. I rarely will input new people’s phone numbers into my phone if they have emailed it to me. I simply search from my phone for that email and then call when I need to. I don’t put things into folders or even download attachments anymore. They are always stored for me and I can go in a and grab them from any device. My search and browsing history is even a part of my record. And all of this makes it so I don’t have to even be aware of my accumulation of knowledge. Because it is all networked, I don’t even need to know where to find it.

This all means that the process of collecting and processing what is new is stupefyingly easy. It gets so that I rarely have to have any kind of original thought at all. The content just keeps on pushing further and further in.

Throughout all of this aggregation, the creative process is taking place. New works are being penned, but mostly about the same things. Because media consumption has become a type of art, our writing is becoming recycled.

It is af the trending topics are simply there to suggest what the trending topics should be. It has always been that momentum begets momentum, but it has never been so easy to make believe that the same story or idea is new through every retweet and “like.” If imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, we have stumbled headlong into the most sincere times yet.

And the semantic web is playing right into the sincere nature of recycled content. Our social interactions around ideas and objects will prove to be very lucrative and engaging places for businesses and users alike. The nearly ubiquitous share button is making it so that nothing is a solitary act, that nothing is unmonotized or at least measured in our social graph.

As the comment becomes our currency and the remix takes on new levels of respect, there is little doubt that the act of writing will become still easier. The question is, should it be easy?

Should the penning of one’s thoughts be a part of everything we read and interact with? If everything is just a reaction to something else, where is there room for branching out and finding your own voice? If our conversations are within shared links, then our level of discourse can never move beyond others’ words.

It is important to know that we all stand on the shoulders of giants and that we have a lot to learn from those who came before, but we have become complacent in our role for balancing out the old with the new. We have stopped caring about creating our own context for the ideas we find because it is easier just to share links.

That is why blogging and good writing in general will never die. No matter how few characters we are limited to on other platforms, there will always be room for some dissent and some context and some new ideas. So, retweet to your hearts content. I know that the stuff that is worthy of that retweet is only what is truly resonant.

And the things that resonate most are still the things that are hard. Struggle and hard fought success and failure are The stories we should all aspire to tell. Recycled content is here to stay, but those stories are our counterweight. They are what allows us to own our social graph and justify our appalling access to content.

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Question 202 of 365: What are the limits of a mobile office?

Image representing TeamViewer as depicted in C...
Image via CrunchBase

I have few requirements left for being connected.

It used to be that I needed a single computer, my computer, in order to catch up with all of the things that are most important. Then it was any computer connected to the internet. Then it was a cell phone for filtering information in twitter and in e-mail. Then it was any device that could pull up gmail and google docs.

Today, my mobile office looked like this:

  1. A usb internet connect card, plugged into a mobile wireless router.
  2. An iPad, running TeamViewer (free) which was connected to my laptop at my “real office” (it was actually displaying another screen via GoToMeeting for a webinar)
  3. A Cell Phone, conferencing in a call from California

I should also mention that I was sitting in my car while attending the webinar, conference call, and remote desktop session. I had no limitations on web applications (flash/ContentEditable issues were not a problem). I had no limitations on mobility. I could have been driving the car and attending (as it was, I was parked). I had no limitations on how many people could be a part of my communication. I was recording the call via Google Voice. I could have even had others logging in to either the webinar or my desktop in order to look over my shoulder as we talked over the ways in which safe social networking can work in schools. Had I thought about it, I could have had Google Voice ring through to my Whistle app on the iPad and not had to deal with the phone part.

As I got out of my car and went into my kids’ school to go pick them up, I realized that my office really is everywhere. I’m not sure what it means that I am truly no longer tethered in any way or limited by the devices I carry. At the very least I question what collaboration really looks like for me.

When I needed my own computer to function, collaboration meant that I had to find a time for people to come to me. As I moved out to any computer, I could seek out others in a small radius. As it moved to any device, I could do more asynchronous types of contribution and conversations. As it became cell phones, I found ways to archive things and bring my voice and video into the equation. Now… well, now I don’t see how my collaboration within any project or document is limited by proximity or time.  It means that I don’t have to wait to take part or process or reflect or create. No limitations means no missed opportunities. No prerequisites for connection. No officially sanctioned regrets.

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Question 201 of 365: How hard and how fast should we jump on the ice?

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Waterfall in the town of Chagrin Falls, Ohio
Image via Wikipedia

The Chagrin river never froze over completely. At least, not in my memory anyway. It was always halfway frozen in the winter, allowing for a few ducks to sit on the frigid water as it took them closer and closer to the falls beneath the Popcorn Shop in my hometown. Halfway out onto the river, the ice was thick enough to stand on. Or so I thought.

Two of my closest friends decided to venture out onto the river as far as they would dare. I followed with a lot of apprehension, but eventually I was able to join them a few feet away from the bank. At first they were only interested in stomping around in circles and hearing the faint cracking underfoot. Then as they saw the ice hold more and more of their weight, they began to jump . Up and down they went and I did my best to be uninterested. I knew what was coming next. I knew that it was only hubris that was standing between us and the freezing cold water. But I couldn’t help from joining in. I knew that at any moment we would become enormous popsicles, but right then we were dry and warming up from all of our jumping.

I can’t believe it took us more than 5 minutes to break through, but we spent the better part of half an hour trying to prove that we were as dumb as the people watching from the park were beginning to suspect. And as we fell through the ice, I remember thinking that we deserved it. We had tempted the gods of the river, and we were right to freeze to death.

Luckily, one of my friends lived just a few blocks away. So, we ran as fast as we could, the water freezing against our skin. Our clothes were stiff by the time we made it. As we dried off with some of the warmest and most comforting towels I have ever known, I knew that no amount of explaining would ever allow others to see why we had to jump on the ice together and feel it crack under our weight. I knew that it wouldn’t be possible for my parents or my friend’s parents to see why jumping was our only chance to make sure that we were alive in all of the ways we wanted to be.

And I put it to you that I still cannot explain it. I still cannot decipher our total lack of understanding for what it was we were attempting. What I can say is this: Every risk I have ever taken is some version of that day.

Every risk, so long as it is worthy of consideration, but be two things: a collective act and have the possibility of catastrophe. Solitary risk isn’t of interest to me. It doesn’t hold my imagination at all. Without friends around to watch me fail, there is little hope that I will ever be able to learn or have any kind of humor about that failure in the future. I also believe in total catastrophe as a kind of performance art. I often tell my wife that taking two trips from the car to the refrigerator to put away the produce is much more fulfilling than taking one. I say this because there is a much higher likelihood that I will stumble my way into something interesting if I can take my time with each bag. I am just clumsy enough that the practice of taking two trips doubles the possibility of me falling headlong into the refrigerator, or better yet, a good idea.

I am not interested in advocating for jumping on thin ice, however. What I am advocating for is a kind of free will that doesn’t disallow jumping on thin ice because it is a monumentally bad idea in the eyes of pretty much everyone. I am recommending that we all, from time to time, embark on some hideously bad ideas in the hopes that we can gain insight. Oh, and we should write about them and share stories, too. That way, anything so absurd as to cause each of us to thank our lucky stars that we weren’t involved will be the push we need to go out and try something truly insane, and perhaps spectacular.

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Question 200 of 365: Are we on a roll, taking roll, role models, rolling the dice or just rolls of toilet paper?

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Toilet paper
Image via Wikipedia

We worry about being fathers. We worry about being sons. About being employees and entrepreneurs. We worry about the things that we are and what we will never be. But I don’t care abut the roles we are prescribed or the ones that we take on over time.

Perhaps it is more important to be on a roll. It so happens that I am on one so that makes sense that I would hold it in higher esteem. In 200 days, I have asked questions and sought guidance. I have commented and collected. Not being done is the best part about being on a roll, too.

Taking roll was never my favorite part of teaching, but I do find it convenient now to see exactly when all of the people I have become are present. Every once in a while, I just look around the room to see if I am still here. As it turns out, I am.

And the role models: The ones I actually look up to are the ones that surprise me. I want those that do not fit into any role at all, other than that of interesting and passionate. For in those two things, I find that we are all fodder for progress.

I’m betting on consistency winning everyone over. I’m putting my future on the line because I promised myself that nothing would be too sacred to not let it ride one more time. This roll of the dice is special, even beautiful.

It is okay that people wipe themselves with what I care about. So long as they find it useful, I have done much of my work well. Now, only if I could get people to see just how clean these ideas will get you.

I am most a roll of toilet paper because everything else is too removed from the truth. If we do nothing else except for wipe away the worst excrement, then we will have fulfilled our role perfectly. The other rolls and roles don’t matter.

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Question 199 of 365: When do we stop asking for medicine and band-aids?

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A Band-Aid bandage
Image via Wikipedia

I had a favorite medicine growing up called Triaminic. It was the wonder cure-all. Pretty much anything that was wrong could be fixed with a little Triaminic. It had this syrupy sweet cherry flavor that wasn’t overly thick. It didn’t have the aftertaste of a Robitussin or the fleeting quality of a Tylenol. It was what I asked for by name whenever I stayed home from school. It was an elixir, a special potion which could give me back both health and confidence with a single spoonful.

I eschewed band-aids, though. They were for kids that couldn’t handle the wonderful sensation of picking at a scab. I don’t know if my kids will ever know how much I loved to pick at the places on my elbows and knees that the sidewalk had found and rubbed up against only days before. They won’t know because they love band-aids. Every time they get hurt (and many times when they do not), they ask for a new band-aid. Many times we go through several for every cut. It is almost as if they continue to get hurt just so that they can get me to put the sticker with medicine on them. Almost.

They too are magic. Band-aids for my kids instantly turn crying into thanks. They instantly cause the world to once again be in its right place. My children find the littlest wound or oldest scab and find it detrimental to their continued play, but as soon as the Band-Aid enters the equation, there is silence. The smiles return and off they are, bounding through to the play room. They are ready for the next adventure because they got patched up.

At some point I stopped asking for Triaminic and my parents stopped offering. At some point, my children will too stop begging for hello kitty Band-Aids. These wonderful fixes will lose their luster. They will no longer be good enough. But, what is that point? How long can I keep the quick fixes in circulation. How long can I keep the illusion going that anything can be solved with a simple capful of medicine or a few easily removed adhesive tabs?

And once that simple trust in these remedies is broken, it is all we can do to try and get it back. I think that our entire lives are spent in figuring out ways to make Band-Aids and Triaminic work again. We search for quick results and a simple answer to the most complex professional and personal problems. We try the same things over and over in the hopes that some of the magic will return. We “sleep on” our biggest decisions as if the mere act of sleeping will somehow provide insight. We have recurring meetings as if the fact that getting the same people together will produce innovation. We make budgets as if the fictional numbers will somehow keep our wants in check.

I know that there is no cure-all. That it is all snake water and workarounds. I know that time and working toward a better life is the only medicine at all for the present. I’ll take them, but they taste much more bitter than my Triaminic ever did.

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Question 198 of 365: When is sleep inappropriate?

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GDR "village teacher" (a teacher tea...
Image via Wikipedia

I observed classrooms for years before I became a teacher. Sometimes I would observe the interaction between students or the way in which a teacher would discipline others. I would watch the passing of notes and the distracted looks of those who longed to be outside. I could see the worst anger boil up within a student who received a bad grade.

There is only so much you can watch, though, without taking part. You can’t sit back and watch alliances form without becoming a part of the warring factions. It doesn’t do to stay aloof, waiting for the discussion to come around to what you are interested in. But there are times when observation is your job, so you must. For the sake of objectivity, I would watch the teacher drone on and the students sit and stare.

This was how I observed myself to sleep.

I watched a facilitated discussion on a book that i had never read, and i slowly laid my head down on the teachers desk at the back of the room, pretending to read on my lap. This is a move I had perfected in middle school, but I had never used it as an adult. At least, not until I was under the drug of observation. It was the constant lull of disinterested students who were forced to speak about a book that they hadn’t read either that relaxed my muscles and lowered my eye lids.

I woke up and realized what I had done as the classroom was staring at me. I apologized and everyone laughed. I never felt so much like a kid as I did in that moment of being caught in my disinterest. And feeling like a kid without your permission is awful.

I am not okay with observing myself to sleep anymore. I’m not okay with letting a situation be responsible for my stupor. I’m not okay with being disinterested in life to the point of losing conciousness.

I obsessively participate. I wring out experiences until there is nothing left. I pluck every moment and listen as my life screams with pain and pleasure and hope and failure.

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Moodle 4 Learning Day 2

Telling your learning story makes you a better learner and a teacher.

It is my hope that within this course you are not only getting the bare bones understanding of how to construct a Moodle course and of Moodle’s capabilities, but also that you are able to tell your learning story to others who may run into similar obstacles. It is important that we tell these stories in order to preserve for our students and for one another that it was not a light bulb that we turned on one day when we decided to use Moodle.

I would like you to think through your experience from yesterday and your experience last night in editing your first Moodle course. I would like you to tell the story of that experience within our backchannel. Remember, the phone number to text is 3037206269 and just make sure you put #4learning in the text somewhere. Or you can login to twitter and post with the same hashtag.

Grade less, create more is what I value in online learning.

It is difficult for me to find many things that I would actually want to stick a grade on and call students to account for their contributions. The reason for this is that I am more interested in the process of creating content and sharing information than I am in affixing a letter to that process.

If we are simply responsible or putting up our assignments online and letting them “grade themselves” we are doing ourselves and our students a disservice. We need to think about what requires a grade and what only requires a check. We need to think about what we are resourcing and what we are collecting. Accountability is not the same as obsessive marking things off of a checklist.

  • In all of the things that you collect, what can you stop grading?
  • What can you let be a learning experience and not an assessment experience?
  • What assignments do you need to keep track of exactly who contributed and which ones can remain anonymous?

Expertise is relative.

Everyone can become an expert on at least one thing in Moodle. While I asked you to become an expert in embed codes, I knew that many of you would struggle with this idea until you saw how it all worked (and perhaps even afterward).

An expert is someone that knows the inside and out of a given idea and may be able to even provide help to others who are looking for an expert in your area. I would like you to claim an area of expertise that you think you might be able to tackle today. This does not mean that you will have to be right each and every time someone comes to you, but it does mean that you will have to sit down with the question asker and figure it out together.

Please use the spreadsheet from yesterday to claim your area of expertise and we will continue to add things that require experts: http://bit.ly/4learningresources

Thanks again for coming on this journey. Let’s dive back in.

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