(Re)learning How to Learn
The Practice of the New
Learning is an ongoing process; new things happen and we adapt. Outside circumstances sometimes compel us to learn completely new skills, or at least augment ones we already had. But there’s a palpable difference between learning that is necessitated by purely external factors, and learning that one pursues based on internal, intrinsic needs. And as I progress through my first month on Substack and begin launching my various other projects in earnest, I realize that there is a learning curve to learning itself; and that it takes practice to be comfortable with learning new things.
Yes, I’ve had to learn certain things like how to start a business (it’s not as hard as I thought); how to set up my Substack page; and how to work Stripe to process payments from my paid subscribers (THANK YOU for your support!). But those are more content-based or practical things. But even those feel fundamentally different, because the motivation to do them feels more internal than external. There’s no mandate to learn this stuff other than the fact that, if I want my business to thrive, I need to learn these things. Thus, as scary as they are, I want to learn them.
But the thing that’s got me thinking today is how I’m (re)learning the less concrete, less logistical things ... like how to write, how to read, how to occupy space, how to work, and how to dream. I thought I knew how to do all of those things before; and I did them well in the context of academia. But now they have taken on an entirely different quality.
So what, exactly, am I learning (or re-learning) now?
I’m (re)learning how to write ... again.
Yes, I’ve always known how to write. I know how to write academic things; I know how to write course outlines, syllabi, intros to philosophers and ideas for classes. I know how to write articles and chapters, and even books. Each writing project I’ve ever done always requires a learning curve. All of the things I’ve published have had different creative practices with them, depending on the publication and the editors I’ve worked with. Even writing reports or assessments for my old job had specific structures and processes that were specific to those projects.
But my process now is a bit of a different beast altogether. There’s more freedom; freedom to find a voice that didn’t necessarily have a space to announce itself before. In so doing, I’m having to learn what writing is like when it is unfettered from old constraints. When I was teaching, I was lucky if I had the energy to write for an hour on any given day, because there were so many other places where my effort had to go. But now, I have more mental real estate from which to draw ideas, energy, and motivation. That is a new feeling.
I’m (re)learning what a “good day” of writing and editing looks like. I no longer have to be as miserly with my drafts. I have the space to get all the ideas out; and then do major editing later. That’s new, because with my academic writing, I simply didn’t have the luxury of time to go on tangents and side-quests as I wrote, and if I did, I’d be plagued with feelings of guilt for my “wasted effort” as I excised large chunks of it.
I’m (re)learning how to read.
This is the most shocking to me, because I never realized just how conditioned I had become to fast, targeted, and directed reading. Even for my articles and chapters, there were usually specific texts or films I was analyzing, or specific philosophical concepts I was engaging within the narrow constraints of the original abstract or Call for Papers. Reading always had a specific destination or reason. I was always looking for x, y, and z to apply or analyze.
Reading for pleasure was an absolute and rare privilege. Actually holding a book (or my kindle1) and reading for reading’s sake was something I rarely, if ever, did. Almost all of my reading was geared toward producing something — some analysis that could be published; or something that could be used in a classroom. That’s not to say this wasn’t rewarding. When I revamped the philosophy curriculum in my final few years at my old institution, I voraciously read marginalized theorist and philosophers, and fully re-immersed myself in gender studies, queer theory, intersectionality, and various other postmodern and poststructural theories in ways I hadn’t done since grad school. It was glorious, but it was also for my job and my classes. I often found it necessary to abandon texts I found deeply interesting and moving on because I knew they’d never fly in an undergrad class, whether because they were too graphic, too dense, or just too heavy of a lift for undergrads dealing with other work, their jobs, and their own lives.
But now I am reading books, articles, and Substacks on subjects (philosophical and non-philosophical) that I simply enjoy. And, I’m learning new things as I do. This open-ended reading, while ostensibly is to inspire my own writing, is literally a joy. The ability to actually slow down, and to once again appreciate the words on the page as words, to read and reread for clarity and just for pleasure, is something that has eluded me for decades. And I’m finding now that I have to re-learn how to open space for the books I read, and allow myself the time and space to fully immerse myself in them.
I’m (re)learning how to occupy space.
I am lucky enough to have a space in my home that is my own (as does my wife). This is very much a privilege that neither of us takes for granted. But sadly, for the first decade that we lived in this house, I never quite appreciated it or enjoyed it as I should have, because there simply wasn’t time.
The majority of my time was (voluntarily) spent on campus, in a campus office which I loved. It had two giant windows which overlooked our main quad, and I had decorated my office with artwork created by students in our Art program and sold at semi-annual student art sales. My presence on campus and my immediate surroundings were ways for me to stay plugged into the rhythms of the university, which was absolutely necessary for me as an educator. I needed to feel the “vibes” on campus during different times of year, or through various administrative or student body dramas. It helped me be more empathetic and sensitive to my students’ (and my colleagues’) capacities and needs. But now at home, I am becoming sensitive to other energies, and taking full advantage of my domestic spaces. This, most importantly, is augmenting feelings of gratitude and pride for what my wife and I have been able to accomplish.
I am also finding other places (like my favorite coffee shop) where I can work and still feel collective energy. I find that, much like going to the gym, being around other people working can be inspiring. I love sitting at the coffee shop to feel the broader rhythms and seasonal moods of our little mountain town: how the tourists treat each other, the locals, and particularly the staff, gives me a good sense of the overall mood in town in any given season. And I also enjoy the occasional indulgence of grabbing lunch and/or a beer at my favorite restaurants or bars. Normally those spaces were reserved for “serious” conversations with colleagues to gossip about work or privately discuss plans that we didn’t want other colleagues or administration to know about. Now these have become spaces of relaxation and real connection with friends, or just spaces in which I can people watch.
I’m (re)learning how to exist in time.
If (re)learning how to read was the most shocking phenomenon, (re)learning how to exist in time has been the most profound. I’ve already written about how I had been on an academic schedule essentially since I was four. My years were measured out in roughly nine-month intervals which spanned from August through May (or September through June prior to college). Every season was experienced in relation to an academic schedule, both as a student and then as a professional. And now, to experience the seasons and rhythms of the year uncoupled from an academic schedule is a completely new (and at times disorienting) experience.
For example, the autumn has always been my favorite time of year. In fact, the last quarter of the calendar year (October through December) is basically when I am at my best, emotionally and psychologically. I am the opposite of most in that I thrive as the days get shorter, and enjoy being inside in a warm, cozy house while it gets colder outside. Conversely, I find April through June to be near-unbearable and when I tend to get the most sullen, depressed, and sad. While I have yet to experience those difficult months outside of academia, I can say that my first autumn away from academia was a magical experience. I was able to actually go outside almost daily and enjoy the seasons change, day by day. I got to hike in golden aspen groves and re-ground myself in the earth. It was beautiful. The ensuing holiday season was equally magical, as I didn’t feel pressure to “enjoy the holidays” in the seven-day span between when my final grades were due and I had to start prepping for the Spring semester.
From a daily perspective, I have a new relationship to the rhythms of the day, and can now work with my own schedule. It took several months, but my sleep patterns have finally improved. My blood pressure is down. My workouts are unrushed and have become an extension of my daily meditation practices.
I’m (re)learning the meaning of work.
Paradoxically, I am actually working harder than I ever did in academia; but it doesn’t feel the same. The effort I put into my daily routine of reading and writing (and consulting, and advising) is far more than I did in academia, yet it doesn’t feel as taxing. Why? Because this work is for me, and I am the one who sets my own boundaries. While that should have been the case when I was in higher ed., there was not a lot of support to maintain boundaries in general.
I know many will read this and think not maintaining your boundaries is your own fault. No one forced you to check emails when you got home from work. In theory, that’s correct. In practice, however, especially for those on the tenure track in a smaller or teaching-centered university, not checking email or responding to student requests promptly usually meant that you’d be dinged in your student evaluations for “not being available,” as well as being dinged by chairs and administrators for not being “collegial.” After all, it’s that one-on-one, personal attention that is the “secret sauce” to smaller teaching colleges and universities; or so the marketing literature would have everyone believe.
For the first time, basically ever, I can now end my workday and actually relax without feeling guilty, or being so exhausted that quality “rest” doesn’t actually happen.
I’m (re)learning how to dream
When I was in academia, there were certain aspirations that I had regarding my career. There were things I wanted to do with the curriculum and ways I wanted to innovate that were simply not possible where I was. I saw the “enrollment cliff”2 coming and from my experience as Director of a program and as a Faculty Trustee, I had a detailed plan regarding how my particular institution could weather the storm. I actually had outlined it to an administrator over coffee one day, but it was politely dismissed with a smile and wink, and a familiar mantra regarding how difficult change can be in light of our the university’s limitations). That lack of vision reinforced my decision to leave. Personally, the most difficult thing for me to accept was that I had (wrongly) ratcheted back my larger professional/philosophical aspirations in order to accommodate the “security” of being in my tenured position, coupled with the naive hope that I could actually do something to help facilitate real change.
Now, I have an entire world in front of me that I didn’t have before; and I’m still adjusting my eyes to the expanses ahead. If you had told me in May of 2022 (when I definitively decided that the 2022-23 academic year would be my last) that I would create a business of my own, I would have scoffed. But now, I see possibilities that I simply could not see before. I feel like I am part of something much bigger, and it’s taking me time to adjust to that freedom.
There are more things I’m (re)learning how to do, but they are still so deep and personal I don’t even have the words to articulate them. And I fully understand the position of privilege that I am coming from in this process. But I do think there is a takeaway for those that may not have the freedom to make a shift like this. It is possible to look at the things that may be blocking you or may be clouding your focus. We can definitely get rid of those clouds, but we have to allow ourselves the space and grace to re-learn. That in itself is a process.
While I generally prefer reading physical books, I deeply appreciate the convenience of my Kindle for travel (or reading in the tub).
Based on birthrates from the past several years, the number of college-aged students will peak in 2025, and then decline dramatically for several years. Concurrently, the percentage of 18-24 years olds choosing to attend college peaked years ago and continues to decline.