by Lynne Yun
I've always thought of myself as someone who loves to learn, study and experiment. I've embarked on learning adventures from everything I've always loved (like drawing!) to those that I used to be afraid of (like ballroom dancing). As I ponder about what it means to be a lifelong learner, I’ve been thinking about the process of learning, the emotions that surround it, and the community that enables me to be on this path.
Perhaps it is necessary to clarify that I talk about learning in the broader sense, as a process we engage in all the time while we go through our everyday lives. Sometimes learning is mistaken as only referring to studying in a classroom, or confined to the information contained in a how-to book. What I'm talking about is the basic spark of acquiring something new in our brains. I’m always learning something, whether it’s keeping the cat preoccupied during Zoom calls (bribe him with snacks beforehand!) or finding out that my favorite Seamless delivery restaurant is closed on Tuesdays. Even on days that seem devoid of interest, I’m conscious that I was probably engaged in the act of learning in some capacity.
I love the idea of learning something new. Perhaps the easiest way to explain this is through the addictive thrill of accomplishment that comes with the process of learning. For instance, whenever I come across a particularly difficult game boss, I find myself knee-deep in research. I search Reddit for any tips that await me, look through playthroughs on Youtube, and read game guides on blogs. Then, armed with all my newfound nerd knowledge, I try to beat the boss again and again — and I feel a huge sense of thrill and achievement when I do! Although this process might not sound like your stereotypical ‘learning’ experience, it’s all about accumulating new knowledge and harnessing it to do something you couldn’t do before. In that way, it feels a lot like DIYing your own personal backyard porch!
Since time is a finite resource, I often have to decide what I want to spend time on, and this means that there is a topic or subject that inevitably falls by the wayside. Guilt and a sense of loss often accompany changes that I make in my learning goals and habits. For instance, before the pandemic I'd prided myself on being an avid reader. I’d read for at least two hours a day, on my commute and before going to bed. However, with the pandemic I stopped commuting and so did my reading habit. My old routine of riding the subway every morning slowly changed into a routine of taking care of my garden and household plants, and eventually it turned into a newfound hobby. Nowadays I spend my spare time taking care of the hundred or so plants in the house, read up on new trends about houseplant care, and get excited about every new leaf that grows in my care. Despite this new and fulfilling routine, I can't help but feel a pang of guilt whenever I get email newsletters about new books. I know I haven't abandoned my love of books, and that part of me still exists, but I sure do feel guilty about not actively reading on a daily basis.
As a recovering perfectionist, sometimes the idea of learning a new topic turns into a source of anxiety. "Am I wasting my time? Will I be any good? Is this even worth trying?" On a conscious level, I’m aware that everyone starts as a novice; there are only so many hours in the day; and I should be exercising self-compassion for all my beginner mistakes. And yet, as a chronic worrier, my self-doubts are often in danger of diminishing my enthusiasm to learn. When I first started learning how to code, I was frustrated that I was clearly no programming prodigy and maybe even a bit embarrassed that I was one of the older students in class. I considered quitting multiple times, but thankfully I stuck with it. Eventually, I learned to enjoy it, and consider my past frustrations an invaluable experience when passing my knowledge to students. I need to constantly remind myself that learning is about the journey, not the end goal.
I always expected the process of learning to be a simple, linear path. I imagined learning to be something like going up a staircase, one step at a time. In reality, learning is much more complicated and organic; I failed to account for the fact that learning is personal and contextual. Everyone starts at a different stage, synthesizes knowledge at different paces, and has different goalposts.
What could be a more inclusive view of the learning process? In my search of a more expansive mental model for learning, I came across the idea of the Native American medicine wheel. It represents integrative learning, and sets up a great foundation for lifelong learning. The interpretation and details of the wheel vary among indigenous communities, but typically the structure represents the four cardinal directions — east, south, west, and north. Each of the directions can take on different meanings, such as the stages of life, seasons of the year, and most importantly for me, the learning process. The circular shape of the wheel highlights the interconnectivity of the stages of being a novice to being an expert. I was struck by the idea of the wheel, and how it represented the ideals of an individual being in the ever-learning process. The wheel portrays how learning is a recurrent process: one that can potentially spiral to higher levels of development with each passage around the wheel.
If the medicine wheel were to be drawn in a dimensional diagram, we could see that it resembles a spiraling climb. And in this ascent there are stages: information, knowledge, and wisdom. This dimensional wheel, while still circular, allows a learner to acknowledge that they are going through stages of being a novice to an expert, and allow them to start the cycle over while acknowledging that one is continually evolving. I find this very relatable to the current times, when so much raw information can be easily gathered from the internet, but no search engine can truly give us knowledge or wisdom. Before I got my dog, I read so many books and blogs about puppy parenthood. However, it probably comes as no surprise that I discovered reading about a puppy was vastly different from knowing what I should do with one. Having only had the experience of raising a couple of dogs, I suppose that I’m probably not yet wise in the ways of dog parenthood yet, but perhaps it may happen after raising a lifetime of dogs.
Learning often means that you become part of the community. We see examples of this all the time, whether it be intentional or unintentional, formal or informal. I've consciously joined communities before, such as when I enrolled in an art college program. I've also unintentionally become part of an informal learning community, such as an impromptu advice session with coworkers over happy hour drinks. Learning usually doesn’t happen in a vacuum, and I’ve found that I tend to keep up more with learning if I find the surrounding community to be appealing. Having interactions with individuals who are supportive and engaging help speed up the learning process, and I find that I often try to pay the kindness forward when I am a bit further along in my journey than other novices. This usually turns into a beneficial cycle where I feel like I am a part of something bigger than just myself.
How could a learning community could be visualized within our spiraling wheel of learning? Each individual is on their own spiral learning journey, and there is a larger spiral that consists of the community as a whole, implying that the community itself is also learning as the individuals within it are doing the same. The possibilities of trajectories become quite expansive within this model. If we expand our thinking, perhaps we can even imagine a space where there are multiple communities growing and forming a cluster. In my mind I can see a model of our solar system, zooming out to show a network of stars — just like how our Milky Way galaxy has 100 thousand million stars, each with their own network of planets.