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Since 2022, I have had the distinct privilege of serving as an editor and conversation-partner for Director Lynne Westfield through her ongoing written contributions to the Wabash Center. What began as a professional collaboration quickly became something more generative, more human—an evolving dialogue grounded in trust, care, and a shared commitment to clarity of thought and purpose in teaching.From the very beginning, I found myself drawn to Lynne’s voice. There is a particular kind of vulnerability in her writing, an openness that does not seek performance but instead insists on honesty. Month after month, for more than four years, I have sat with her words, responding not simply as an editor marking a page, but as a reader invited into a living, breathing intellectual and spiritual practice. With each blog post, I became a deeper admirer of her work—not because it sought perfection, but because it refused to hide from complexity.Those monthly exchanges were never transactional. They were conversations. They required attention, patience, and a willingness to listen beyond the surface of the text. As an editor, I believe it is important to understand one’s role is not to refine the author/artist into something more “polished,” but to help them become more fully themselves on the page.Many of the blog posts with Lynne have now found new life in her recent book, Thinking Teaching, out now from Cascade Books. Watching that manuscript take shape has been profoundly rewarding. It marks the second time I’ve had the honor of witnessing Lynne bring a book into the world, following her earlier work, Glimpses of Me and Mine (2023). To see the arc of her ideas develop from individual reflections to a cohesive, enduring text has been a reminder of what sustained writing practice can do.Editing, at its best, is an act of care. A good editor does not impose themselves onto the work. They do not flatten the writer’s voice into something more familiar or marketable. Instead, they listen. They ask questions. They create space for the writer to hear themselves more clearly.Over the years, working with Lynne has sharpened my understanding of what it means to be a compassionate and effective editor. For those engaged in similar work, I offer a few guiding principles:Listen for the writer’s intention, not just the sentence’s structure.Editing is not only about correctness; it is about coherence between what the writer means and what the reader receives.Protect the writer’s voice at all costs.Your job is not to rewrite the work in your own image. The distinctiveness of a writer’s voice is their greatest strength.Respond, don’t dictate.Frame your edits as invitations or inquiries rather than commands. This keeps the process collaborative rather than hierarchical.Cultivate patience and trust.Good writing, and good editing, takes time. Trust that clarity will emerge through conversation, not force.What I have learned through this work is that editing is not a neutral act. It is relational. It requires humility. And when done well, it becomes transformative, not only for the writer, who is given the space to grow and refine their voice, but also for the editor.To work with Lynne Westfield has been to witness an author bloom steadily, courageously, and without compromise. In supporting that process, I, too, have been changed. I have become a more attentive reader, a more patient collaborator, and, I hope, a more generous thinker.This is the quiet gift of editing: when we commit ourselves to the flourishing of another’s voice, we often find our own deepened in the process.Please check out Lynne Westfield’s latest…Thinking Teaching: Stories, Insights, and Strategies to Ignite Reflection, Discussion, and Imagination – Out Now!

On a recent visit to the faculty breakroom to heat up my lunch, I ran into a colleague who asked, “Richelle, how is the semester going?” We had not seen each other very much during the semester. We were at the midpoint—administering exams and collecting assignments. Among the faculty, there was an awareness that the consistent use of AI was presenting problems. We felt anxious because we were uneasy about moving forward regarding campus policies and the use of AI. We were skeptical and questioned whether students were even interested in learning anymore.My colleague’s question prompted me to move beyond the default response, “The semester is going well,” but I took a few seconds to answer. “I am experiencing some sharpening this semester.” With a puzzled look, he followed up with, “What do you mean?” “I am being challenged relationally by students, and vocationally I am being stretched.” Our brief conversation ended with him telling me to hang in there, and with me returning to my office to take some time to reflect on my response.Proverbs 27:17—“As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” One Bible commentator offers: “Iron cutting tools are made sharp, bright, and useful by rubbing them against another form of iron. A person without the company and conversation of a friend is alone, dull, and inactive; but with the fellowship and communication of a friend, they are refreshed, revived, and fitted for—and incited to—action.”The experiences of sharpening that I encountered were not directly connected to friendship, but to the teacher-student relationship. I recalled the two intentions I set at the beginning of the semester:As a teacher, I would strive to be the best version of myself. As a teacher, I would help students read, write, and think better. The first intention caused me to remember my teacher, mentor, and dissertation advisor—Dr. Katie Geneva Cannon. She often shared the legacy of Black women educators in the Jim Crow South who taught in overcrowded, one-teacher schools with scarce funding and out-of-date resources. This lack did not prevent them from proclaiming to Black children, “I will give you the best that I’ve got, and I want you to be even better.” This mantra was my guiding star throughout the semester. I created, prepared, rearranged, revised, added, subtracted, engaged, and explored content and teaching strategies for student-centered learning.The second intention called for a complete overhaul of the first because I was confronting the reality that some students do not want to be better readers, writers, or thinkers. There was resistance and, oftentimes, a refusal to engage in those foundational educational tasks. My self-dialogue centered on the following questions:Why do they resist reading and writing? It seems like using ChatGPT is always their first choice—why do they refuse to think on their own? Have they been taught to think critically? Beyond offering objective answers, many students would not respond to questions in class. Students used ChatGPT to complete reflection questions and other learning assignments. Using AI is not a big deal for students—everybody does it. Students often avoid doing hard things. Facing consequences and/or being held accountable for actions, good or bad, has not been consistent.As I became more intentional about engaging in prayer and reading scripture, and paid attention to what I was seeing and experiencing among my students, I resonated with Matthew 9:36: “When he (Jesus) saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were confused and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” This verse helped me to identify the students’ need for character development, critical thinking, accountability, and facing consequences for their actions. They were confused and helplessly attached to cultural norms, social media, and subject to poor decision-making.These revelations helped change my perspective and navigate more effective ways of being my best self, while incorporating character development, accountability, critical thinking, and consequences within the foundational activities of reading, writing, and thinking. God was calling me to be a shepherd for this group of sheep, guiding them beyond confusion and poor decisions. This experience of sharpening is a continuous process. Progressing through the semester with these new changes was not easy, but it introduced all of us to becoming better—if not the best—versions of ourselves. Challenging, refining, and improving one another, the sparks and friction that ensued were difficult but necessary, and will hopefully produce lifelong learners who benefit from the sharpening.

“The best way to learn something is to teach it.” Wary as I tend to be of truisms, this one has proven accurate in my own experience as a teacher and scholar. The passages and concepts that I have taught over the years are on permanent recall in my brain. I remember these stories and ideas because I have talked about them with others repeatedly. But learning—and learning through teaching—is not just about memorization. The practice of preparing to teach prompts a very specific (and, yes, memorable) kind of thinking. When I approach a text to make a teaching plan, it requires attention to particularity and ambiguity. When I prepare to teach, I ask: What can be clearly learned from this passage? What is uncertain enough to warrant discussion? In other words, I read for ways both to distill possible meanings and to make room for new ones. In recent years, I have begun wondering what it might be like to invite my undergraduate students into this practice of teaching preparation. I’ve formulated “The Teaching Portfolio” as a capstone assignment for an upper-level undergraduate course where the enrollment may be too high for students to actually teach all or even part of a session themselves. In this assignment, each student selects a biblical passage (one we haven’t already read together), subjects that passage to close analysis using the terms and queries we’ve developed over the course of our semester, and finally plans several activities or discussion prompts they would use to help their hypothetical students engage with their chosen passage.  The AssignmentThis is how I describe the assignment to students:This final project invites you into a step-by-step process of how you would approach interpreting and then teaching a biblical passage in a classroom setting. These projects will be individual, but we will devote the final two weeks of class to workshopping these projects collaboratively.Here’s what that teaching portfolio will include:A. An Annotated Biblical Passage. In the margins of this passage you will:Pose three major interpretive questions, related to the types of terms and queries we have asked over the course of the class. Pose two translation or vocabulary questions that you can research and answer (please chat with me about this!).Pose two connections with texts we’ve studied over the course of this text. Explain these connections. B. An Interpretive Artifact. A piece of direct (that is self-conscious) interpretation of the passage you’ve chosen (from short ancient Jewish or Christian texts, from the history of art, etc.). If you select a text, make sure that it’s an excerpt of around three hundred words. Put this artifact into brief context (tell us who made it, when, and where).Describe the artifact, making two to four observations about how our specific course concepts and terms are represented in this artifact or are relevant to its analysis.Make at least two observations about how this interpretation differs from the biblical text and/or what this interpretation adds to the biblical account.How might you incorporate this artifact into a classroom activity? What questions would you pose to the classroom to generate discussion about this artifact? C.  Answering Your Questions. Attempt provisional answers to your three major interpretive questions (from part A) with direct, specific references to the text. You may not be able to answer your questions conclusively (that’s okay!), just reflect on how you would begin to answer these questions with as much detail as you can.D. Preparing to Teach. Having wrestled with this text and its interpretation, now is the time to reflect and prepare to teach it. In this final section, please address the following questions: If you taught this story in a classroom setting, what two or three major concepts, questions, or ideas would you want students to remember from this text? Why? What would make teaching this particular text challenging? How might you address those challenges? Describe an activity (in addition to the discussion you imagined above in part B.4) that you might use in class that would engage and convey those ideas to students. Describe it in as much detail as you can.Having completed this project, what new interpretive questions do you now have about this passage, especially in view of our course’s major terms and concepts? E. Presentation. You will have ten to fifteen minutes to present your portfolio work-in-progress in the two weeks leading up to finals week.  The Fine Print Your selected passage must be from a part of the Hebrew Bible or Septuagint (LXX) that we have NOT covered in class. Be sure to spend time understanding the context of this passage, especially if it is part of a larger narrative. That is one thing we will ask you do at the beginning your portfolio presentation.Not sure where to start looking for an interpretive artifact? Check out the following sites:Posen Library of Jewish Culture and Civilization. The Posen online library has some great examples of visual and literary interpretation of biblical passages.  Visual Commentary on Scripture has some good examples of biblical interpretation in the history of art (if using the VCS just make sure the artwork you select is a direct, self-conscious representation of your biblical passage; some of the connections this site makes are more abstract). Sefaria is a great place to start in finding examples of ancient Jewish interpretation. While you are welcome (encouraged!) to confer with colleagues, your final project must show clear evidence of independent thought (different questions and answers, a distinctive interpretive artifact, etc.). If a colleague from our workshop inspires or helps your thinking in any particular way, be sure to cite them like this: “(conversation with A. Colleague, 12/6/24).” ResultsI have used this assignment in several 300-level courses (enrollment twenty to twenty-five). I typically reserve our three final class sessions for students to present their portfolios in progress and receive feedback from their colleagues. This means we typically end the semester on an energetic and collaborative note. One student told me that the project helped inspire his pursuit of a career in education. Students have reflected that this project helped them to synthesize the major ideas of the class and consider how they might communicate them to communities beyond our classroom.  

We know that students are most motivated to learn when they’re genuinely excited and curious about the material, when they can connect the material to their personal interests, and when they can perceive the relevance between course content and their own lives, both current and future. (This is one way of establishing “value”—a primary driver of student motivation.)I have tried to motivate my students this way for many years, convinced by the goodness of the approach. In class discussions, I frequently ask students to think of examples from their own lives to illustrate course concepts: “What is a time in your own life where you felt misunderstood based on an identity that you held?” or “If you were a Hindu, which god would you worship and why?” I frequently teach skills and orientations that I explicitly state can be used outside of my course: “I suggest this note-taking strategy for all of your classes” or “I encourage you to ask ‘why’ about everything you do.” On weekly quizzes, I prompt students: “Describe a connection between something from our course this week and your life outside of class.” For their final projects, I allow students to choose their own topics; my instructions read, “Ideally, I’d like for you to pick a topic that is relevant or applicable to your own life, something that interests or excites you.”I DO think this attunement to relevance and connection helps students to learn. They do seem excited by the material; they do seem to understand difficult concepts better with personalization; they do seem to realize and appreciate the applicability of course material more than if I simply lectured at them about course content only. It’s been rewarding to witness.AND I am becoming worried about this approach.In both public and private spheres, I am perceiving the (increasing?) pervasiveness of:Disinterest (or worse) in people who are “not like us” (out-group bias);“Cancel culture” and going “No Contact” from those (even parents) who may hold opinions, values, or beliefs different than our own; Villainization and pathologization of people who we reduce to just one thing (an identity, a behavior, a religion); Psychological labels such as “toxic,” “narcissistic,” or “triggering” applied to those individuals whose behavior we don’t like (a great book on why this is a problem); Compulsory “pick-a-side”-ism (this video even contains a warning!); Refusal to admit—or even to consider—the inevitable limitations of one’s own position;Valorization and unqualified support for any “one of us” (even in the face of obvious concerns or problems); And more.I am bothered by this all.When I insist on relevance as a guiding principle in my presentation of course content, am I implying to students that anything that doesn’t personally interest or benefit them is not worth their time? Am I positioning whatever is outside of their (very very limited) spheres as inherently insignificant and irrelevant? Am I encouraging an individualism (that often lapses into self-centeredness) that Americans are already known for? Am I fostering growth, exploration, discomfort—or am I basically fitting the horses I lead with better and better blinders?My daughter loves reading graphic novels. (I get that any reading is still reading, but some of these books are terrible.) And they’re mostly representative of the life that she leads. The protagonists are all young characters whose lives are consumed by crushes and drama and makeup and annoying teachers. Yes, it’s all very familiar. But the best literature can transport us to different worlds. It exposes us to experiences and situations that we may never encounter. We get to inhabit characters who may be unlike us in every way possible—and grow to care about them deeply. (I cried over a gorilla in The One and Only Bob.) This is how literature builds empathy; this is what “Theory of Mind” is all about. So, once in a while, I force my kid to read old books, books from my childhood, books where the characters don’t talk like her or act like her or have the same stuff as her. She doesn’t like it one bit.I think we could all do with getting out of our comfort zones a bit more. I think we could all do with a bit more exposure to ideas, people, and worlds that are disconnected from our own. Otherwise, we’re all just operating in our own little insular echo chambers. How else will we discover new interests? How else will we change our minds? How else will we build empathy? Lots of things are going to be irrelevant or foreign for students AND still be important for them to learn. In fact, maybe these are the most important things to learn? So the question I’m trying to mull over now is: How can we motivate students while also de-centering them and pushing them to engage with difference, strangeness, otherness, irrelevance—learning for the mere sake of learning?

Since my last post, life has changed in ways I never imagined: a divorce, a move from Indiana to California, and the start of an entirely new rhythm. I’m still drawing every day, but my focus has widened. I write, I cook, I apply for jobs, I manage household logistics. The life I imagined during my sabbatical—long, uninterrupted studio days—has given way to something messier and, in its own way, more honest.   2025 Mini #6, 2.5 x 3.5 in., ink on paperMornings usually start with writing. I work on essays for my two ongoing blogs: Aspie Art Journey, where I write about life as an artist with Asperger’s and how that lens shapes my perspective on the world; and Dating App Diaries, which chronicles the equally unpredictable world of human connection. Both projects grew out of the same instinct that drives my drawings: to observe closely, reflect honestly, and keep creating even when life doesn’t line up neatly.When the writing slows, I move on to practical things—job applications, phone calls, the endless details of caregiving, and keeping a household running. It’s not glamorous, but it’s part of the work. I’ve started to see these moments—cooking for my parents, cleaning, organizing supplies—as an extension of art-making. They’re grounded, rhythmic, physical. The same kind of attention that steadies my line work can also steady the rest of my life.   2025 Mini #13, 2.5 x 3.5 in., ink on paperLate afternoons are for drawing, even if only for an hour or so. My large-format days are on hold for now; most of my recent work consists of small 2½ × 3½-inch ink drawings. The pens I used for years finally clogged, so I’m experimenting with new colors and tools. I enjoy the challenge of small-scale pieces—they require precision and focus without the demands of long hours. They also fit perfectly with a new project I’m planning: a Patreon that will feature these drawings as part of a monthly subscription. Alongside them, I’m sketching designs for a new 4×6 linocut print series. Both ideas bring me back to the tactile side of creativity—the ink, the carving, the test prints, the final prints, and the repetition of making something by hand.   2025 Mini #18, 2.5 x 3.5 in., ink on paperEvenings are when I reconnect with the spirit behind all this: podcasts about functional medicine, the intersections of Buddhist meditation and neuropsychology, or Spanish language lessons. I also read, yet rarely finish a single book before starting others. Sometimes I draw to music; sometimes I just look at what I made that day and think about how it fits into the larger story of my life. That’s when my mind drifts to Lines on the Spectrum, my illustrated memoir, or to the online course I’m developing, “Art as Spiritual Practice.” The course explores the same process I go through daily: using creativity to stay present, grounded, and aware. It’s designed primarily for non-artists, hobbyists, and anyone who feels a pull toward new, transformative experiences, even if they’ve never called themselves creative.   2025 Mini #23, 2.5 x 3.5 in., ink on paperAnyone can become more creative despite the oft-repeated refrain, “I’m not an artist; I have no talent.” The course combines practical exercises with a rigorous examination of terms such as artist and spiritual, a concept that is hotly debated among scholars of religion. The course is a hybrid, combining experiential and reflective elements. Participants practice art-making to encounter transformation firsthand, while also engaging the critical study of language, meaning, and presence.I now see that what I loved most about teaching—the chance to help others notice, pause, and see differently—still guides my days. I just do it now with ink, words, and color instead of “lectures” and syllabi. Art remains my way of thinking about meaning and presence, except now I practice it one small act of attention at a time, line by line, word by word.