Again about learning. At 6, I couldn’t lace my shoes or zip my snowsuit. In front of the lockers in the basement of the school, the nun ridiculed me, and quite loudly may I say. Everyone heard. I hadn’t known I was expected to know how to do these things. I felt confused. How was I supposed to acquire such skills? And how had the others learned? It troubled me, thus forcing me, early on, to reflect upon learning.
Up to that moment when I was laughed at, I wasn’t aware that I didn’t know. Only then did I become conscious of my incompetence.
From a pedagogical perspective, reaching that second level is considered progress. For me, of course, it was just pain. But it did set a pattern. Not only didn’t I enjoy not knowing, but I disliked being made mindful of the fact. The first and second stages of learning weren’t therefore suited for me.
I thought of aiming for the third level where one is conscious of how competent he or she has become. Instinctively, though, it didn’t seem right. Such a step might induce bragging and a certain amount of showing off, meaning a form of relationship to people. Why? Simply because knowledge here is an extension, something you’re aware you’re accumulating and using. An appendix. An attachment, therefore visible, attracting attention. Like a nice bag you’re carrying. There’ll be somebody somewhere who, with envy, might go after it.
Much better, I thought, to target straight away the fourth level, a quieter one, where others leave you in peace, can ignore you, for you reach the rank of those who may no longer feel like talking about what they know: the level where you’ve stopped conjecturing about knowledge. No need to ponder upon how to get and then retain skills and understanding, because they have become part of you, they are who you are. And since people can’t distinguish what you know from you as a person, they may decide to leave you alone, perhaps not even notice you. And there’s nothing now they can take away.
You have absorbed. You can cross frontiers. No one will ever find anything in your luggage.
The key, did I think, was to become porous. I honestly believed that my house of thoughts could be the answer. A paradox, I know. Since it provided a perfect environment for in-depth learning, the fact it cancelled the experience allowed for endless acquisition while, at all times, leaving me unconscious.
This is why I kept using the house of thoughts as a child. Confident I had an unsurpassed formula to become the person I wanted to be.
Equipped with a satisfactory explanation, I not only felt more confident, but dared dream not just of becoming one day a writer, but a great one.
That makes you smile with commiseration? Me too.
Laolao
Up to that moment when I was laughed at, I wasn’t aware that I didn’t know. Only then did I become conscious of my incompetence.
From a pedagogical perspective, reaching that second level is considered progress. For me, of course, it was just pain. But it did set a pattern. Not only didn’t I enjoy not knowing, but I disliked being made mindful of the fact. The first and second stages of learning weren’t therefore suited for me.
I thought of aiming for the third level where one is conscious of how competent he or she has become. Instinctively, though, it didn’t seem right. Such a step might induce bragging and a certain amount of showing off, meaning a form of relationship to people. Why? Simply because knowledge here is an extension, something you’re aware you’re accumulating and using. An appendix. An attachment, therefore visible, attracting attention. Like a nice bag you’re carrying. There’ll be somebody somewhere who, with envy, might go after it.
Much better, I thought, to target straight away the fourth level, a quieter one, where others leave you in peace, can ignore you, for you reach the rank of those who may no longer feel like talking about what they know: the level where you’ve stopped conjecturing about knowledge. No need to ponder upon how to get and then retain skills and understanding, because they have become part of you, they are who you are. And since people can’t distinguish what you know from you as a person, they may decide to leave you alone, perhaps not even notice you. And there’s nothing now they can take away.
You have absorbed. You can cross frontiers. No one will ever find anything in your luggage.
The key, did I think, was to become porous. I honestly believed that my house of thoughts could be the answer. A paradox, I know. Since it provided a perfect environment for in-depth learning, the fact it cancelled the experience allowed for endless acquisition while, at all times, leaving me unconscious.
This is why I kept using the house of thoughts as a child. Confident I had an unsurpassed formula to become the person I wanted to be.
I imagined knowledge not so much disappearing after having thrown myself into its breadth, but transformed and sucked up. I was a sponge-like material. Maybe after all I wasn’t forgetting, I was simply converting knowledge into a diffuse shapeless liquid drank by my pores. It was all there. I just couldn’t separate it from who I was. I was unconscious of my competence. That was it. The highest level learning can lead to.
Equipped with a satisfactory explanation, I not only felt more confident, but dared dream not just of becoming one day a writer, but a great one.
That makes you smile with commiseration? Me too.
Laolao
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