Exit Slip (2025.10.9)

This week's session was quite refreshing. The Fibonacci poem warm-up felt like follwing a random rule to write a poem, which is not usually how I write. Still, the constraint did something useful: it pushed me to edit, pick sharper words, and notice a certain rhythm. It made me think that in class, the right constraint can be a ladder rather than a cage. Apple-cider time was a wholesome chaos in a good way—people swapping stations without fuss, knives and hand-cranks going, press at the end like a boss fight. It was one of those rare moments where group work actually felt like a real production line and not a forced activity. 

Entrance Slip (2025.10.9)

The readings prompted me to look at three threads together: space, language, and assessment. On space, I get the appeal of learning gardens even if I’m not exactly an outdoors person—there is something about fresh air that quiets the noise. If I ever use a garden, I’d keep it lean and purposeful: a portable blackboard, tight notes, a short task that only makes sense because we’re outside, then back to regular tools. Calling ecosystems “co-teachers” is an interesting nudge; at minimum it reminds me to treat the place with respect instead of as decor.

On language, Kimmerer’s “grammar of animacy” stuck. I rely on precise math/physics terms because they prevent us from talking past each other, but I can see how a nouns-only register flattens things. A small shift in sequence might help: let students notice a phenomenon first—growth, pull, drift—then name it, and keep a parallel, verb-ish gloss so the idea feels alive instead of museum-labeled. It’s also a quiet way to signal that more than one knowledge system can sit at the table.

On assessment, the case for refocusing from grades to learning lands for me, with caveats. Grades still translate for parents and universities, but in class we can lower the temperature: more low-stakes completion credit where it makes sense, a retake or alternate demo of understanding, co-making a rubric so students see the target and help define “excellent.” I like the “firm goals, flexible means” framing. It doesn’t throw out standards; it just gives students room to show what they can do without everything riding on one number.

Exit Slip (2025.10.2)

This week’s conics warm-up worked better than I expected. Starting with “where do circles/parabolas actually show up?” and letting us sketch and name our way in made the unit feel like a casual list of shapes. The hands-on locus demo was a nice one as it clicked that why “a set of points” is a useful way to think. Also, seeing the relationships among the conics helped: ellipses with eccentricity less than 1, the parabola as the boundary case at 1—that “family resemblance” made the equations feel motivated. The quick detour to our group's Gabriel’s Horn scratched the pure-math itch too: finite volume, infinite surface area is the kind of paradox that reminds people definitions matter.

Ed Doolittle’s Star Blanket patterns are basically sequences and symmetries people can hold, and scrabble was a smart reminder that games are rule systems we can tune to the language, not the other way around. Between that and the represent-in-many-ways exercise (draw, name), the through-line for me was pretty simple: pick representations that actually carry the structure—whether that’s a string tracing a locus, a blanket encoding a sequence, or a board game redesigned for morphology—and then give the formal math its spine once people can feel what’s going on, for the lower levels of math of course.

Entrance Slip (2025.10.2）

Kimmerer’s chapter nudged me to look at the language we teach with, not just the ideas. In math and physics I rely on technical terms because precision matters; they keep us from talking past each other. I can also see how a nouns-only register can flatten experience—everything becomes a labeled thing on a list. The “grammar of animacy” reframes that: verbs and relational words point our attention to process, change, and responsibility. It also raised the harder question of language loss; when a community’s words for the living world go quiet, the ways of noticing they encode fade too. That feels relevant in school, where the words we privilege quietly train students on what counts.

Practically, I’m not throwing away terminology, but I can change the sequence and the tone. Start with an encounter, then name: watch condensate bead and slide before we say “surface tension,” feel the “tug” in a stretched line before “force,” track a plant’s height over days before “rate.” When we introduce the formal terms, keep a parallel, verb-rich gloss on the board so both registers stay visible. I may also try small translation moves, like rewriting a definition in process language, or telling a proof as a story of what one quantity does to another—so students hear that concepts are relationships, not just objects. I do want to emphasize that none of this replaces the precision we need for problem solving, but it might keep the ideas from feeling mechanical and make room for easier understandings.

Entrance + Exit Slips (2025.9.25)

For the reading, I mostly heard a call to “backsourcing”—making a few of our own everyday things—not as nostalgia, but as a way to rebuild attention, pride, and small-scale community. That landed for me in a measured way. I think the idea that knowing how something is made changes how you value it is interesting, and I felt that with the grass rope makings and other small craftings. At the same time, I’m mindful that global supply chains also keep people connected to culture. I’m leaning toward a hybrid: keep the reach of global goods, but deliberately fold in some local making so students get the feel of process, not just the product.

This week’s session made the ideas concrete. The color-matching task flipped “I see green” into “which green, exactly?”—active noticing. Twisting corn husks into rope was better than I expected: thickness drifted, tension exposed weak spots, and the material itself set the pace. I found myself iterating without being told—sense the strand, pick the next husk, adjust, which is basically a hands-on feedback loop. I can imagine using short, focused slices of this as a warm-up or side quest that makes formal ideas a bit more fun and novel. 

Entrance + Exit slips (2025.9.18)

 Going into the reading, the idea of the garden as a “co-teacher” made a certain kind of sense, at least as a way to notice how abstractions often start from contact with the world. Framed that way, the design question shifts a bit—from simply moving the same lesson outside to asking what could plausibly happen because we’re in that space. I can imagine some light-lift connections that don’t fight the content too much: timing shadow lengths before talking rates of change, noticing standing waves on a branch before formalizing boundary conditions, or using a magnifier and sunlight to nudge a quick chat about focal length. If a space like this is going to last, looping it into assessment, research, and scheduling would probably help it feel less like an add-on.

The class’s hours in the garden gave that theory a bit of texture. The sound-drawing task, which I thought would be too abstract, ended up being a simple perceive-and-represent loop that felt close to modeling. Apple picking and just paying attention to small details worked as a reset after a busy week. I can see why shorter, routine “micro-labs” might lower the barrier for some students and open a few more sensory entry points into ideas we usually meet through notes and formulas. That said, I still suspect most of the heavy lifting with math and physics happens when we’re back at a desk with time, tools, and a board.

If I try this again, I’d keep it practical and site-dependent so it doesn’t turn into a garden-shaped classroom. A quick sit-spot map using a chosen sense, a few days of vine-length measurements before a slope discussion, a brief wave demo on a line or branch—small things that are easy to pivot if the weather turns. Paperwork and buy-in are real, but standing permission, a short safety routine, and a rain plan would smooth the edges. Overall, I’m open to using the space when it actually carries some of the load, and then letting the more formal work do what it does best once we’re back inside.

Entrance Slip (2025.9.11)

From the reading, one idea that stayed with me is the emphasis on being a “reflective teacher.” The three qualities of open-mindedness, responsibility, and wholeheartedness feel like strong guiding principles. I had already thought about open-mindedness and responsibility, but wholeheartedness stood out as a reminder that our commitment is not only to subject matter, but to every student we encounter. Teaching is not just about transmitting facts; it is also about investing ourselves in our students’ growth. Another point that made me pause was the reminder to distinguish between beliefs that rest on tested evidence and those that do not. As a teacher, our words carry weight, and I realize that even casual statements can influence students in ways we don’t always see. That means I need to be intentional, not only about what I know, but also about admitting what I do not know. In this way, reflection helps me clarify my own assumptions before passing them on. In conclusion, I found the idea of reflection as an ongoing process helpful. It does not always require a formal moment of meditation; it can happen as we walk home, recap a class, or even engage in dialogue with students. Teaching seems to be less about fixed routines and more about evolving alongside our students. Reflection, then, is a habit that shapes us continually, reminding us that the only constant in education is change.