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My coach and I were discussing a difficult decision I needed to make for my newly acquired job. I confided the details of the situation to her, and she listened patiently. We discussed the dilemma and figured out some contingency strategies. As our conversation was winding down, she said the simple phrase, “Lynne, you got this.” I wanted to cry. I did not think I had it. I was inexperienced and struggling. But, when my coach told me I could navigate the difficult situation, I believed her, at least a little bit. Her belief in me brought me unexpected comfort and gladness. I needed someone to believe in me and say it out loud. When our students enter our classrooms, they bring who they are, along with their anxieties, uncertainties, fears, and so often, lack of confidence. The question is, while you are doing the difficult and increasingly complex job of teaching--who believes in you? My mother was my consummate cheerleader. My mother rooted for me all my life. When I attempted small things, she prayed, cheered, and supported. When I attempted enormous things like a doctorate degree or a new job, she prayed, cheered, and supported. In the years when I routinely traveled to do consultations or public speeches or to preach, my mother would ask me the time of my work so she could pray at those exact moments. I miss my mother’s undimmable support. She believed in me and her belief gave me confidence. We need people in our lives who understand that teaching, even when wildly rewarding, is challenging and this challenge cannot be accomplished alone. We need people who cheer us on. People who instill courage. People who help us to muster up our brave. Who believes in you and your work and supports you in your efforts? Find these people. Thank these people. If you do not have these people, get these people. Or, be that person for someone else. The Wabash Center requires letters of recommendation for workshop applications. In every batch of applications, we inevitably receive one or two letters of recommendation written by a dean or department chair for an applicant that is a meager one or two sentences of perfunctory prose. The letter is hurried, too brief for the needs and gravity of the application. Every time I read a flimsy letter of recommendation written by a too busy person, I feel sorry for the applying faculty colleague. If you are not going to write a thoughtful letter, perhaps be truthful and tell your colleagues that you cannot recommend them. Or, even better, take the time to write a decent letter of recommendation. These letters are moments to cheer on a colleague who is trying to better themselves and their teaching. Entertainers and athletes have the luxury of being cheered on by a crowd. Yes, they must live through, on occasion - jeers, sneers, boos—every now and then. However, much of their careers are spent being applauded. What if we gave our faculty a standing ovation or the equivalent? What would a round of applause for teachers be like in our schools? So many institutions single out one colleague and provide a “Teacher of the Year” award. Consider that, rather than fueling community, this individualizing gesture feeds contempt for one another. Teacher awards do not improve teaching. They do not communicate to faculties that they are appreciated.  They only pit colleagues one against the other. Design new ways to celebrate all who are struggling to survive, all who show up to each class, all who meet their students with lesson plans, expectations, and dreams. Expressing to one another that we believe in what we are doing and that we support teachers and teaching will require, for many schools, a culture shift. Last week a young colleague told me that she was scheduled to give an important presentation at her school and, understandably, she was nervous. I penciled a note on my calendar so I could remember the date. Today I noticed my note and called my colleague. She reported that her presentation went quite well. I told her that I was proud of her and her accomplishment. I told her to continue her hard work.  I told her I believed in her. I hope I instilled a bit of confidence. I hope she believed me when I said that I believed in her. I am going to tell colleagues in tangible ways that I believe in them. I am going to make a practice of penciling into my calendar, then following up with a phone call or email so colleagues know someone is rooting for them. Imagine the difference that could be made if we root for one another!

        They tell you that it gets easier.         They are damned liars.         Every single one of them. Each consecutive day is harder than the one before it, and it doesn’t start rosy. They arrive early. They don’t tell you that, either. Thirty-seven to thirty-eight weeks at the latest. Or twenty-nine. They don’t tell you just how small they are. Four pounds, one ounce and three pounds, two ounces in Nettie’s and Lucy’s case. They don’t tell you about how they’ll be immediately separated from one another in the NICU or the weeks you’ll spend there or how you’ll come to crave that coffee that tastes like it has been filtered through an old sock. They don’t tell you about forehead IVs. They don’t tell you about the nurses that are godsends and the doctors that are not. They tell you that you will eventually leave, but they don’t tell you when. They don’t tell you that you’ll cart around two vital sign monitors everywhere you go when you do. They don’t tell you about all the times that you’ll wake up panic-stricken at 2AM when the rhythmic beeping stops because the strap has slipped off their chest. Or about the time you will rush back to the NICU when it’s still on. They don’t tell you that there will be double the literal and metaphorical shit. Double everything: pain, joy, mess, love, difficulty. They don’t tell you that there will be two of them and they are each their own person. But there are and they are.          They tell you that that season will pass.         It will.         But that doesn’t mean it gets easier. I became a parent of identical twins early in my teaching. I didn’t tell my students when my daughters were born. I believed in caring for my students as humans—cura personalis and all that—but I was also advised that I was not to be their friend. That there should be a distance to the professorial relationship. I also became a doctor that eventful semester. I didn’t tell my students when I defended my dissertation. I didn’t request that they start addressing me as “doctor” for the remainder of the semester. I shied away from accolades and self-promotion. One day after class a student inquired about the patient identification wristband I was wearing. I explained that I had not been hospitalized, but the band allowed me in and out of the NICU, where I had been sleeping and where Nettie and Lucy were to spend several weeks. The next class I received a handwritten note of congratulations and well wishes. In that moment I learned that caring for students as people involves more than just recognizing their humanity. It means allowing them to see ours as well. Three years later when my partner was diagnosed with cancer, voice cracking and holding back tears, I told my students of the diagnosis and positive prognosis. They sent notes. Gift cards. Signed up for my family’s MealTrain. Beth has now passed her one-year anniversary of showing no evidence of disease. We teach real humans. We are also ourselves real humans. There is no prescriptive practice for being human. There is also no prescriptive practice for putting our humanity on display within a learning community. But I have come to learn that bringing less than my full self to teaching is of benefit to no one.

A few weeks ago, my eight-year-old daughter decided to grade the weekend we spent together. I don’t know where she got this idea. I didn’t love it. Our weekend scored a 70/100. Readers, over the course of this weekend, we ate pizza, hot dogs, and fried chicken. We went to the pool, twice, where she played with two different sets of friends. We got her favorite ice cream flavor at our favorite ice cream place. We watched an animated film of her choosing. We went rollerblading at a nearby playground. We went to a park where she participated in a kid’s mud race. We attended a local Bach concert. We walked down to eat breakfast one morning at a beloved brunch place, which had just recently reopened after having been closed during the pandemic. There were some challenges. I made her rollerblade. Even though they were rollerblades she herself requested from her grandparents for Christmas,  rollerblading is still hard for her, and she doesn’t like doing it, and she grumbled throughout the entire experience, and I got annoyed, and we butted heads. But we cuddled, chatted, and laughed a lot too. And this was a C-?!? I felt disappointed, hurt, even, by the low score. I wanted to protest about how hard I had tried to create a good weekend for her. I wanted to detail all the effort I had put into our plans. I wanted to point out all the good things about my weekend “performance.”I wanted a different score. And I definitely wanted to put way less effort into future weekends, if my best efforts were, at most, going to earn me a 70%. And then I realized precisely what—or rather who—I felt like. I felt like one of my students who had tried really hard, on a paper or a test, and who still didn’t get the grade they wanted, that they thought they deserved. The same students who send seemingly entitled emails late at night or come by my office hours to do the dreaded “grade grubbing.” The same students about whom I sometimes privately think: Tough noogies. Effort isn’t everything. You can work hard and things still won’t necessarily go your way. This is life. Oof. Researchers are coming to better appreciate the role of emotions in learning (see here and here, for instance). Grading, in particular, is an “emotional practice,” for students and instructors alike. Getting this score from my daughter was a good reminder for me—and for all of us—of just how difficult the learning process can be for students. Failure (or even a C-level grade, which certainly isn’t failure), on top of everything else going on in their lives (e.g., living away from home for the first time, working part-time jobs, health problems, relationship issues, etc.), can hurt. It can feel frustrating, demoralizing, unfair—even if it is also “a necessary component of learning and growth.” When we get a low score, or other negative feedback, it can affect our motivation, our self-efficacy, our self-worth, our willingness to take risks, as well as our desire to continue. I think it’s important to put ourselves in the shoes of students once in a while, to remember what these feelings—and their potency—are like. As we get older, there’s less of a demand on us to get out of our comfort zones. Kids are learning constantly: how to hold their own heads up, how to use forks, how to not run directly into oncoming traffic. As adults, we can usually opt out of uncomfortable learning experiences. When was the last time you tried to learn something? When was the last time you really struggled with a new skill or knowledge? When was the last time you failed—and it was public and someone else gave you a grade for it? One of the skills that’s important to me to teach in my religion courses is empathy, which I hope students will apply to the people and traditions we study. But this skill is applicable to us too. Experiencing our own failures can be a good reminder that students are people too and that they bring a mix of emotions into our classrooms, all of which affect their learning. This reminder may help us consider how we might, perhaps more delicately or kindly, facilitate those situations in which failure is possible or even inevitable.

In a first-year seminar guided by the question “Who am I?” my students are often a little shocked that their first reading suggests that they annihilate their sense of self. Though the inner lives of a medieval mystic and a contemporary student at an American university may seem worlds apart, I have found that mystical texts offer a profound space for students to critically reflect on their identity, position in the world, and relationship to others – including the divine. With research expertise in medieval Islamic mysticism, it is perhaps unsurprising that I gravitate towards mystical texts. Other scholars of mysticism will likely concur that the mystical offers a fruitful avenue for reflection on the question of identity; as William B. Parsons notes in his introduction to the edited volume Teaching Mysticism, the study of mysticism is “rich and complex, mysterious and compelling, dense and troubling but, above all, of immense cultural relevance” (2011, 5). However, it has been unexpected and gratifying to see The Conference of the Birds – a medieval Sufi poem – become a popular text among my colleagues who teach Villanova University’s interdisciplinary humanities first-year seminar, Augustine and Culture (ACS). The fact that only a handful of my colleagues are fellow scholars of religion, and none are experts in Islam or mysticism attests to the relevance of mystical texts for exploring questions of identity. Scholars of religion who do not specialize in mysticism may ask: What is it about the mystical that allows our students to reflect so deeply on their selves? I suggest four primary reasons why mystical texts are helpful for exploring the self. First, the notion that the self must be overcome or even annihilated (to use the technical term from Islamic mysticism) is a fascinating way to ask “What is the self?” What is central to identity and what is peripheral? Second, mystical worldviews offer some of the most expansive views of human cognition, allowing students to consider the constraints they put on themselves and how to remove unhealthy barriers. Third, with some theories of mysticism positing a universal human experience, students can reflect on the possibility (or lack thereof) of transcending boundaries of gender, sexuality, religion, culture, and so forth. Fourth, with many faculty members lamenting that students are becoming increasingly prone to black-and-white thinking or polarized factions, the mystical helps students to become more comfortable with paradox and uncertainty. Moreover, it allows them to consider how uncertainty might be conducive to critical thinking and deeper self-reflection. The following series of blog posts [Part 2: available 12/6/23] provide an overview of how the mystical invites profound reflection on identity. Although I will focus on the medieval Persian Sufi epic The Conference of the Birds, I believe that numerous other mystical texts from across religious traditions can invite similar insights on the self. In this post, I give a summary of The Conference of the Birds and the themes that are particularly suited to examining questions of identity. The next post provides practical tips for introducing key concepts of mysticism in order to help students understand the relevance of mysticism in a world that is preoccupied with material success, relationships, and tangible sources of happiness (in other words, a world that is often directly hostile to the aims of mystics). The final post contains assignment ideas and a concluding reflection. While these tips are mostly intended for scholars new to mystical texts, they may be of use to specialists looking to revise their teaching techniques or introduce the mystical in general survey courses.   “My Self Frustrates Me”: An Overview of The Conference of the Birds and the Value of Mysticism for Self-Reflection Written by Farīd al-Dīn ‘Aṭṭār (d. 1221 CE), The Conference of the Birds (Pr. Manṭiq al-ṭayr) is an allegorical poem that imagines the Sufi mystical path as a group of birds and their perilous journey to find their king – the mythical Simorgh. The poem richly describes several species of birds and the individual flaws that prevent them from achieving spiritual excellence, as well as the tireless work of their guide – represented by a hoopoe – to help them understand that their worldly concerns are insufficient to achieving true happiness and convince them to pursue the divine instead. The poem includes short, allegorical avian excuses and the hoopoe’s responses, along with rich descriptions of the path itself (represented by seven arduous valleys), and a final discussion of divine union. Though the poem is specifically concerned with the Sufi path, teachers may find use for the poem in any class concerned with identity and self-reflection. Mystical writings present students with a provocative challenge to what many of them consider central to their identities. The Conference of the Birds suggests the things that people usually focus on – family, love, career, and so forth – are ultimately meaningless. Thus, it provides an excellent way for students to reflect on what is fundamental to their identities and what is peripheral. Furthermore, it prompts them to examine if they should leave the peripheral and temporal behind in pursuit of the eternal, or if such a path is too extreme. At Villanova, each student begins their first year by writing an essay responding to the question “what is a life well lived?” Many write about the importance of family, friends, and material comfort. This provides an outstanding foil for introducing the radical rejection of these ideas as presented in The Conference of the Birds. Though I have yet to encounter a student who takes up the mystical path after reading the poem, I have taught hundreds of students who can better articulate why having a family is essential to their identity after reading a text that encourages them to leave behind all worldly and temporary connections. In keeping with the theme of profoundly challenging students’ assumptions, Sufism advocates for a radical annihilation of the self to reach unity with God. The notion that one’s identity is essentially meaningless in the face of ultimate reality is daunting, yet my students are frequently intrigued by this. When discussing the idea of annihilation of self, some students react with fear, others with comfort. Those who are fearful note that it reminds them of their own mortality, but that it also brings up more immediate concerns: why bother with college if nothing but God matters? Conversely, those who are comforted by it say that being reminded of their own cosmic insignificance makes them feel freer. After all, who cares about a B on a test if nothing but God matters? Either reaction brings out reflection on identity and what is considered essential to the self. While the concept of annihilation of self can be intimidating, I remind students that the mystical is also one of the most open views of human capacity. I first encountered this approach to mysticism when taking a graduate seminar on contemplative theology with Wendy Farley. She noted that contemplatives hold some of the most expansive views of the mind and its potential, which is one of the most self-affirming views of the mystical I have ever heard. Thus, while ʻAṭṭār frequently uses negative language about the self, I encourage students to consider just how bold a claim he is making: a person can unite with God. Or more specifically, given the imagery of the polished mirror at the end of the poem, a person can reveal that which is divine within themselves (ʻAṭṭār 1984, 235). Considering this view of humanity and its potential brings out a fascinating counterpoint to the negative view of the self-described above. This encourages students to consider readings of the text that are not readily apparent or intuitive. Moreover, the realization that “losing the self” means becoming or revealing the divine within oneself can empower students to think more positively about themselves and their abilities. When one considers the theory of mysticism alongside the text, the expansiveness of the mystical worldview extends beyond individuals to the possibility of a collective, universal human experience. Neoperennialist scholars of mysticism such as Robert Forman suggest that mystical experience is completely unmediated by language, culture, and religion, and thus represents a shared core of humanity (1999). While this position is hardly uncontroversial (I have argued against it myself), I find that students are deeply intrigued by the possibility of a shared core of human experience. Given that Forman and others argue that the mystical represents a unique opportunity to access this singular human experience, this theory demonstrates the relevance of mysticism particularly well. While many students remain skeptical of the possibility of universal experience, this conversation is a pathway to consider how one might overcome social, religious, ethnic, linguistic, gendered, and other constraints. It also invites reflection on whether or not these so-called constraints or social factors – say, gender – is an essential aspect of identity. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the mystical provides space to become more comfortable with paradox, ineffability, and uncertainty. In a recent New York Times op-ed, Jonathan Malesic argued that the biggest predictor of college success was intellectual curiosity and openness to new ideas. He noted well-intentioned undergraduates who seemed terrified of taking difficult subjects for fear of not already knowing the subject matter of the class, often seeing knowledge in simple “right/wrong” terms (2023). I have noticed this tendency more and more with my own students. My undergraduates are remarkably bright, but are often reticent if they do not feel certain of the answer. I have observed a marked improvement in students’ intellectual confidence and overall academic development in courses when I begin with a mystical text. I believe this is because they immediately encounter an author using paradoxical language intentionally. The revelation (explored in the next blog post *available 12/6/23*) that the inability to express oneself rationally does not mean that one is stupid, inarticulate, or talking about something unimportant is an essential step to developing the intellectual openness and confidence to succeed. Though many mystical texts invite reflection on the above questions of identity, this series of blogs will focus on The Conference of the Birds in the hopes that other faculty will feel confident to add it to their syllabi. It works especially well in a first-year seminar, an introduction to Islam course, a general mysticism survey, or classes on literature and religion. Though it is a profound text that deserves close attention and expertise, I find that nonexperts can become comfortable teaching it with the practical tips I outline below. In my own department, I have led faculty development workshops to help scholars from across humanities disciplines prepare to teach the text and am happy to share that all have reported back that it was a student favorite (and a favorite to teach). The text is lengthy, but can easily be excerpted to be taught in approximately two weeks of class time. I typically assign the introduction to the poem (which allows me to outline the Sufi path, ideas of ineffability, and loss of self), the bird’s excuses (which provides an opportunity for student self-reflection about what holds them back from pursuing difficult tasks), the sections of the poem in which ʻAṭṭār describes the seven “valleys” of the journey (which invites contemplation of how one responds to difficult circumstances, whether or not trials are necessary, and how gradual loss of identity feels emotionally), and the final section of the poem (which prompts conversation on the notions of loss of self-identity, divine union, and the possibility of a universal experience). Depending on the nature of the class, one also could focus on a range of other themes and elements of the text including: the format of the allegorical stories, the form of the poetry itself, and nature imagery.   Notes & Bibliography ʻAṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn, Dick Davis, and Afkham Darbandi. The Conference of the Birds. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1984