Take a look at the above picture of my daughter.
It’s awesome, isn’t it?
The expression on her face.
The green ‘hair’ in the form of grass.
It sits in our kitchen. And I smile every time I see it.
Why? Because my daughter thinks it’s awesome.
She finds it hilarious that her hair is actually grass that she grew, sprouting out of her head.
And because she finds it hilarious, I do, too.
Now ask yourself this: When was the last time you gave a gift like this, your face glued to a pot of soil with foliage sprouting out?
I’m guessing not since you were seven.
Why not?
—
Back when I graduated college, I covered Major League Baseball for a couple years. It was an exciting job for someone in his early 20s. But I quickly realized it wasn’t sustainable for the life I wanted.
So I had an existential crisis, packed up and moved to Spain.
I found an apartment in a part of Madrid called La Latina. It’s one of the oldest parts of Madrid, with every church, bar and apartment built before our constitution was signed.
Each day, I’d walk past these buildings hundreds of years old. The streets were just wide enough to fit a couple Vespas side-by-side. You could pull the azulejos off the side of a restaurant if you weren’t careful.
Toward the end of my year-long stay, my dad and stepmom came to visit. And as we were walking from my apartment toward Puerta del Sol or La Plaza Mayor, something strange happened.
My dad and stepmom stopped every few seconds to take pictures.
Of everything.
An old church? Click.
A former theater? Click
A flamenco bar? Click
All this photography forced me to stop and look.
Really look.
And for the first time in maybe 12 months, since I had arrived, I began to see things through a lens of curiosity and wonder.
Again.
I had become numb to just how extraordinary the city was. The ancient architecture. The stories from generations past.
And it took another’s eyes to help me see that.
—
A few months back, I attended a conference where the speaker presented some infographic like this one:
The speaker hypothesized that the drop in engagement was due to puberty and the distractions that come with it.
Maybe that’s the case.
Gallup, though, has discovered a different theory, which is that students “feel less cared for and see less value in their work.”
Undoubtedly both of those are factors.
But I suspect there’s something more beneath the surface.
The more we learn, I think, the less curious we tend to become. As the mysteries of the world are revealed, so, too, is our curiosity.
The more we know, the more we become numb to those things which used to awe us.
We have to fight the ceasless waning of curiosity.
As one study put it, “Science suggests that this dramatic decrease in curiosity could be caused by our increase in knowledge as we grow up.”
But here’s the sad part: There isn’t less discovery out there because we’ve learned more. If anything, our depth of scientific theory has led to more curiosity and wonder, at least for those who care to know more.
As educators, it’s necessary to continue to push this envelope.
In our students, sure.
But in ourselves as well.
As we grow numb to the mysteries of this world, our passion and excitement wane. And that rubs off on our students.
They begin to think they know everything. Or at least enough.
So their drive for learning diminishes.
That’s on us, as educators, to help reveal just how much more our world has to offer.
—
I hope, when my daughter is nearing 20, and 40, and 60, she still smiles at the idea of a cup with her face on it, green grass sprouting out.
And that she remembers how unique, fun and creative that is.
That she’ll find joy in something seemingly simple, yet so full of mystery.
I know I will.