“How’s school this year, Son?”

“Mum, they just rush you. They rush you all day, and they are just trying to fit more work in”, declared my six year old.

This conversation startled me — more so when I shared it with groups of teachers, and they agreed and expressed a similar feeling of ‘rush’, but lacked a sense of priority to explore and challenge the status quo.

So, how do we step out of the rush? Do you feel ignited or burnt out as a teacher? Is the energy your students bring to the classroom being doused by a sense of rush to cover all of the curriculum areas and the piling of facts, figures, and assessment tasks? How do learners — teachers, students, and their whānau — work collaboratively to consciously choose what logs to place on the fire of innovation and improvement? What must be removed to allow space for change and equity? How do we pay special attention to the spaces that invite reflection and warmth for all learners?

Apparently, I once taught a ‘Grade A’ lesson. I know this because it said so on a slip of paper in the small, brown envelope that appeared in my staffroom pigeonhole following a UK school inspection (because that is how we received feedback in those days). I therefore assumed that my careful grouping of students by ability to explore poems of varying difficulty reflected best practice. I patted myself, perhaps rather smugly, on the back.

Ten years later, a chance conversation with a colleague about inclusive learning design sent me back to that lesson. As I reflected on my actions from that day with new thinking about building in support for those least well served, I began to see that my lesson (in which I made all the choices, making assumptions about students as I went) had not lined up as well with my beliefs around inclusive learning as I (smugly) thought it had.

That moment of seeing alternative ways to design more equitable learning environments was one that triggered a deep shift for me as an educator that is still colouring my work today.

Where would we be without other people’s ideas and perspectives? Without being able to see through another person’s eyes and re-see ourselves through their stories? You’re wearing Lululemon! Is it the best place to get running gear? And why (!!) are you are moving to China? Our lives are totally infused with the perspectives and patterns of others — families, friends, colleagues, and advisors. With people we value, every comment offered is a potential waypoint nudging our thinking and refreshing the way we see the world.

But, as dispensers of words, we’re often unaware of the influence they have on the receiver. Significant chains of events can stem from a passing conversation — or sometimes even from things we don’t remember we said. Pro-Vice Chancellor Māori at the University of Waikato, Professor Linda Tuhiwai Smith tells a wonderful story about the importance of kind words, as she recalls a student who unexpectedly came to visit her after an absence of nearly twenty years. It seems that the professor’s words of encouragement and vision to the then struggling student so long ago had sustained this young woman through an epic journey of academic and personal success. When the student returned to thank her, Professor Tuhiwai Smith thought back to her own wish to improve “the life chances, opportunities, and frameworks for Māori”. She was surprised to find herself achieving this with a few wise words whose particular weave had lasted through time; inspiring and protecting a learner.

Listening to stories from the heart such as this can be magic — stories speak to a very smart place in us where we tend to remember what we heard. Sometimes, as a result, we change the way we operate — not because someone told us to — but, because we ‘saw’ and discovered for ourselves something shiny and valuable in there, and we decided to have it too. In this purposeful listening, we give ourselves the space and the key to unlock our own door to empathy, intuition, and new possibilities for understanding. This is powerful learning, and very different from being in the “They’re-telling-me-what-to-do’’ space.