Snowing when I woke up.
I long for sun and warmth, to be able to get my hands in the ground and get gardening again.
I am reading a mystery where the author writes about how people deal with death which got me thinking about Dad, which in turn led to thoughts about intrinsic vs extrinsic motivation. My research questions that focus on the inner drive to learn are deeply rooted in my relationship with Dad, who always taught me to do my best at whatever I tried but who also was very interested in my grades, even to point of paying me when I did well. My entire professional life seems to be driven by the need for others to see me as professional and competent. Yet why do I choose careers that are personally fullfilling but are regarded by the public as unskilled, something that anyone can do? I am always surprised when I see work I have done, months or even years later, that I have forgotten about and it seems so well done, as if someone else created it. I know that what I seek to understand and implement in my class and for my students is what I need to understand and create in myself. The knowledge that I am capable and competent, that making mistakes is part of life and that doing the right thing doesn’t require an audience or approval.
Finally,context is everything. I am amazed that in the current political climate that I learned anything this term. But I did. It seems as if I had the greatest breakthrough with the least personal cost in terms of stress (although if you had asked me back in January the stress would have featured high on the list). Perhaps because it worked so well and was so rewarding, it seems less legitimate. Does everything have to be hard to be worthwhile? Hmmmm…too much thinking!
It was a harder day’s journey than yesterday’s, for there were long and weary hills to climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal easier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on, with unabated perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its face to heaven that perseverance will not gain the summit of at last. Nicholas Nickelby, Charles Dickens