In his book, Philosophy Americana, Anderson outlines the basic tenets of those individuals in American philosophy known as pragmatists. The pragmatists “were not Enlightenment believers in the inevitability of progress,” Anderson writes, “but across the board the pragmatists were meliorists. They believed that inquiry and experiment could lead to the betterment of human existence” (Philosophy Americana 28). Similarly, college professors seem to understand that progress is not inevitable in the classroom either. In fact, some of the most skeptical academics may even contend that students’ academic skills are deteriorating over time rather than improving (they may place the blame on high schools for poor preparation here). Rather than progress as a given, most faculty believe that their own inquiry and experimentation in the classroom may prove as fertile ground for the learning process. At their best and most impactful, they embody this pragmatic notion of meliorism, hopeful that their efforts will make a difference in the lives of their students.The American philosophical tradition encapsulates a variety of philosophical themes. Several stand out as ones that intersect with and potentially inform higher education pedagogy. In this introduction, I briefly highlight American philosophical themes related to the practice of teaching and learning. I follow this with the journal portion, with entries from a semester-long habit of recording my thoughts and observations related to pedagogy. The paper ends with reflections on the journal process itself.One theme pertinent to this topic is the aforementioned notion of meliorism. The pragmatists, in particular, held an underlying hope that life could improve with a requisite amount of effort and planning. As Anderson puts it, this hopeful stance toward meliorism permeated “Dewey's faith in education, and James’ faith in the human spirit” (Philosophy Americana 29). The idea of growth and continual improvement holds intuitive promise, but requires a foundational approach in terms of what it means for teachers and students. For example, as educators, we need clarity around our intended aims in the classroom. In his book, Experience and Education, Dewey provides a partial answer, with attention to the student experience: the “good aim . . . [forms] a tentative plan of treatment, keeps the plan constantly in view and yet modifies it as conditions develop. The aim, in short, is experimental, and hence constantly growing as it is tested in action” (Dewey 105).While growth and a belief in meliorism involve a sense of gradual improvement and sense of progress, it is clear that growth, especially, is not always a linear process. Marathon runners provide a clear example here. In their training regimens, the goal is to successfully finish a 26.2 mile race, perhaps within a pre-determined time. To meet the designated fitness levels required to run for this distance, it is quite typical for runners to follow twelve- or sixteen- or eighteen-week training programs. These programs provide the runners with a plan to gradually increase endurance capacity, in other words, to grow in physiological and psychological health. While these plans gradually increase the mileage per week, they are not merely linear in nature. Rather, after incremental increases in weekly mileage—say from 28 to 30 to 32 miles per week, it is recommended that the runner then follow with a “step back” or “rest” week, perhaps at 25 miles per week. In this way, the body has an opportunity to restore, thus allowing the runner to continue with this growth pattern and increased fitness the following week.In addition to meliorism, Henry David Thoreau articulated another theme related to pedagogy. Reflecting on his time at Walden Pond, he observed, “how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves” (Thoreau, Portable Thoreau 459). Too often, tradition and conformity serve as barriers to growth and meliorism; this impacts teachers and students, and classes may become repetitive, stale, and boring. Examples of conformity occur in the sense of choosing class texts or rigidly adhering to lesson or curricular plans that someone else created. Part of the job of educators is to balance this tendency toward tradition and conformity with the other end of the potential spectrum—hyper-novelty and directionless path-taking. As teachers, we “easily and insensibly” fall into our own routines when it comes to the classroom and our lesson plans. While Thoreau underscored the downsides of tradition, it is also true that establishing patterns can be helpful to an extent, for example, a tradition of certain institutions (or departments or classes) having high academic expectations. In a similar manner, conformity may also be construed in a positive manner, as when students learn to adapt to face-to-face classroom expectations, for example—not calling out in the middle of class when another student or the professor is speaking. Thus, notions of tradition and conformity may have a place in our teaching efforts, but we need to remain mindful of the potential downsides as well.To work toward growth with an outlook of meliorism, and avoid the trap of tradition and conformity, teaching and learning require a sense of risk and adventure. Part of the joy of teaching is the potential for creativity—experimenting with new readings, new lessons, new discussion prompts, new assessment strategies, and so forth. In a sense, teaching is an ongoing critical and reflective trial, continually trying different blends of pedagogical techniques and materials combined with different groupings of students—assessing each endeavor and then utilizing a more refined approach in subsequent semesters. Indeed, the experimental process continues throughout one's professional career. Even if one ends up teaching the same courses every single semester for years, the experience is always different with new students and a changing world. This experimental design approach is inherently risky, however. Any experiment may in fact lead to potential setbacks or even failure. Perhaps the instructor creates a novel lesson plan that does not attain the aspirational goals nor does it generate student interest. That said, taking the risk makes the possibility of success become a reality.With the proper growth conditions in place—if students trust the teacher, if the teacher can sense this trust, if students are engaged in the class content, if the teacher invites students into the exciting proposition of learning, if students trust each other, if both the students and the teacher are committed to each other and to the class, if the classroom creates and maintains quality relationships—then the classroom takes on an exciting and perhaps even life-changing atmosphere. Palmer describes these moments as a “dance” of sorts, where faculty and students join in intellectual discourse that ebbs and flows and ultimately contributes to the learning process. There are prescribed moves per se and also opportunities for many moments of improvisation, those occasions where teacher and students respond to each other with creativity and insight, inspiring each other to explore new territories of thought. Using Thoreau's roadway metaphor, the exemplary classroom includes expansive lanes for communal travel coupled with individualized opportunities for students to explore their own unchartered pathways.Adding to the previous philosophical themes, in “The American Scholar” address, Ralph Waldo Emerson highlighted key aspects important for intellectual growth, ones apropos to teaching as well. Perhaps most importantly, he emphasized the importance of action or experience: “Only so much do I know, as I have lived. Instantly we know whose words are loaded with life, and whose not” (Emerson, Portable Emerson 59). For the philosophy professor teaching an introductory ethics course, for example, this experience might be firsthand encounters with “real-world” ethical dilemmas—the avid cyclist faced with decisions related to performance enhancing drug use; or the parent faced with existential questions regarding how best to raise a child. Attention toward these areas that Emerson highlights help lead to, although not ensure, growth and the avoidance of stasis; they have the potential to impact teaching in profound ways.Additionally, to teach well—and to create conditions such that learning may flourish—requires a stance of ongoing reflection. Educators benefit from creating time during the day/week/year to consider their teaching, to think about past classes (what aspects went well and which ones did not), and dream about new ideas for upcoming courses and terms. Once a teacher gradually takes on this approach toward pedagogy, perhaps starting with intentional times of reflection and journaling and then followed by a mind-set where these reflective qualities arise more organically, the educator begins to recognize myriad possibilities for connections. They recognize innovative ways to invigorate the classroom and curriculum as well as potential flaws in lesson design. This reflective process is a curious phenomenon indeed. Bugbee writes that “experience must continue underground for some time before it can emerge as springwater, clear, pure, understood” (140). My own habit of running is a meditative practice that helps facilitate this kind of reflective stance toward teaching. While I may not intentionally set out on a run to solve a pedagogical problem, or to develop new lessons or teaching strategies, periodically I experience “lightbulb moments” of inspiration while running. Since our cognition is an embodied cognition, the rhythmic nature of running presents an opportunity for deepening these cognitive functions related to perception and focus. Carving out space and time for reflection is not easy, however, with the constant pull of social media and the busy nature of our higher education semesters.Given my background and interest in American philosophy (especially pragmatism) and pedagogy, I began to think about a writing project focused on these two topics, looking for, observing, and chronicling the areas of overlap, connectedness, and inspiration. It occurred to me, however, that a traditional philosophical paper and argument style was not in order to accomplish my aims. As a result, my starting point begins with recognition for both Henry David Thoreau and Henry Bugbee; both individuals used writing to publish formal works of literature and philosophical argument, but also as a way to develop thought and promote reflection and personal growth. For example, Thoreau argued that “our writing should be hymns and psalms, who keeps a journal is purveyor to the gods” (Writings 167). In this way, my aim here is to use writing as a vehicle to reflection on philosophic themes in the context of a particular undergraduate ethics course. Bugbee decided to leave things in journal form, reworking some material but still maintaining the format rather than organizing by themes. My approach is the same, keeping the overall dated entries and simply editing for clarity of thought.In the preface of his book, The Inward Morning, Bugbee writes: The guidance of meditation, of the themes received in meditation, is the fundamental feature of the work; and the themes of meditation live a life of their own, perhaps wiser than one knows in their advent and departure, in the things they gather to themselves as relevant to their formation, in the memories with which they visit one and establish their own concrete meaning. (10)In this manner, this project entails meditations on the practice of teaching and learning. This includes specific ruminations on class interactions, conversations with students, ideas about pedagogical changes, connection points between philosophical themes and pedagogy, and so forth. Bugbee continues: “Insight is earned, to be sure, but it is not steered, and it must find its own articulate form. If it is to become more than sporadic and utterly ephemeral, one must pay attention to it, it must be worked out” (33–34). In this way, an approach toward teaching that is lived must be worked out, evolving to meet the demands of change. Again, Bugbee writes: If one works out the thoughts, the perceptions that press upon him with the demand for completion, as they lead to one another, in time the actual themes of his philosophy may have a chance to define themselves. Such a philosophy will not be set up like the solution of a puzzle, worked out with all the pieces lying there before the eyes. It will be more like the clarification of what we know in our bones. (35)Part of Bugbee's project entailed developing his philosophy, just as this project entails developing and living out a philosophy of teaching. It is important to discern what is essential in the teaching and learning process; one needs clarity on the day-to-day changing landscape of one class with the changing landscape of thirty very different students and an educator's own changing landscape. Bugbee writes that “[a] life's work takes shape slowly. There is a periodicity about it. At intervals of years there comes a real show-down. Then one discovers, within the scope of his powers at the time, what he has been about” (9). This journal is about understanding the pedagogical process during a specific semester, a project to help unpack and communicate an identity as a teacher. This will require listening to the intimations present and consistently developing them to their fullest.It is clear, to me at least, that the themes of which Bugbee writes hold import for our work in higher education pedagogy. Two themes appear especially important: commitment and immersion. He refers to them as “companion aspects of our true mode of being” (42) and aims to more fully describe their qualities by recalling several personal memories—swamping, building a dam, and rowing. These entries by Bugbee prompt my own (unpublished) memories of immersion experiences: High School Physical Education: Always interested in sport, it is no surprise that Physical Education class interested me. Twice a week throughout high school I would spend time with an individual who would shape my life in way unknown to me. June Davidhizar came to our school relatively fresh out of college—brimming with ideas about pedagogy and ways to interest Midwest youth in all things Physical Education. Parts of our class routine seemed quite normal and mundane. After a warm-up lap around the school (outside of course!), we sat on weathered bleachers to await our daily instructions, complaining about our mandated reversible maroon and white shirts with black shorts (school colors). As juniors and seniors, we focused on “lifetime sports”—not only the traditional golf and tennis, but also gymnastics and, even more astonishing—trampoline. While the class structure may have been normal, our teacher was not. June took her craft seriously and approached her teaching as a professional—not as “gym teacher.” She expected us to put forth our best effort, to work together to accomplish tasks, but she provided the model and encouragement for us to succeed. We were expected to not only develop skills in the requisite sport area, but also become versed in the history, rules and customs. Under June's tutelage I learned what commitment meant when it came to accomplishing a reverse one-and-one-half somersault on the trampoline. “You can do it!” June assured me; she believed in me and had helped me take the necessary steps to accomplish this task.Of commitment, Bugbee writes that this quality involves “satisfaction of the demand to be and to act consonantly with the felt universe” rather than a “goal-oriented endeavor, nor in terms of acquisition or achievement, nor in terms of the fulfilment of explicit moral standard, nor in terms of the realization or satisfaction of the ego” (53). In the context of teaching, the notion of commitment is a delicate and complex notion, in that there may be a variety of commitments with a semblance of negotiations and prioritization involved. To wit, the faculty member has a degree of commitment toward students and perhaps parents, to other faculty members, to administrators, and to self. These various commitments arise and take shape in different ways and to different degrees, at times intersecting; for example, parents may contact a faculty member asking about student performance in class. The educator makes decisions about commitment, too—whether this commitment is to student-centered learning, to undergraduate research, to a mandated curricular model, or to something else entirely.Similarly, Bugbee considers the notion of immersion, which he describes as “a mode of living in the present with complete absorption; one has the sense of being comprehended and sustained in a universal situation” (51–52). Veteran educators can relate to this sense of being—those times in the classroom where they are totally engrossed in the learning environment, when the students are engaged as well, and the conversations appear to lift all individuals in a united venture. Again, this notion of immersion holds import for faculty members. If this quality of immersion is desirable, it is important for educators to facilitate environments such that both teachers and students might experience this quality of being, and they should ascertain those barriers that impede immersion and work toward eliminating them.With the journal process of Bugbee and Thoreau in mind, and having delineated some linkages between Bugbee's work and pedagogical issues in higher education, I now move to the journal itself. Here, I take up philosophical themes and pedagogical issues experienced in the day-to-day encounters with one particular undergraduate ethics course. While my own journal includes entries throughout the entire Spring semester of one particular academic year, for the purpose of this paper, I include entries that most represent and highlight philosophical reflections and themes of interest to the philosophic community. The entries here are edited for clarity; my own practice included intentional times set aside for writing in addition to chronicling those reflections that occurred outside of those settings.Palmer writes that to see students “clearly and to see them well, and respond to them wisely in the moment, requires a fusion of Freud and Solomon that few of us achieve” (“Heart of a Teacher” 15). So much of this relates to attention and the challenge this presents in the classroom and as part of the teaching and learning process overall. Entering the classroom, a teacher can find it difficult to completely and definitively understand or comprehend even one student well, let alone a class of thirty or more. Even if I invest in one student (potentially to the detriment of the other students), it is hard to entirely understand the student, to treat this individual with dignity and kindness, to provide challenge if needed, or to understand the student's life beyond the classroom.Part of this ability to attend to students relates to our own sense of identity as educators. We have little chance of understanding students if we do not understand ourselves as teachers and professors. Palmer writes: “If I am willing to look in the mirror, and not run from what I see, I have a chance to gain self-knowledge—and knowing myself is as crucial to good teaching as knowing my students and my subject” (“Heart of a Teacher” 15). Through this process, I realize, for example, that my task as an educator is to develop and channel my best teaching self, not to channel other teachers with whom I have studied. While those individuals may have had a profound impact on me, I cannot “pull off” their teaching strategies. If I tried this, students would realize it wasn't really “me,” and I would understand this as well.Part of understanding this self-knowledge as a teacher involves realizing our humanity and shortcomings. As Palmer emphasizes, this involves not only “our noble features, or the good deeds we do, or the brave faces we wear to conceal our confusions and complexities. Identity and integrity have as much to do with our shadows and limits, our wounds and fears, as with our strengths and potentials” (“Heart of a Teacher” 17). To this point, I remember sharing my failed quest for a Boston-qualifying marathon attempt with one of my classes. My hope was that by sharing the story, they, too, would take risks and push themselves to potential new heights without entirely knowing the outcome. Determining what kind of personal information to share with our students is indeed a daunting task; it requires maintaining a constant reflective attitude along with attention to the students and overall class environment.It strikes me that what I read can and does impact my teaching—this habit can bring about productive results, but there is a certain danger in seeing everything as a nail when the hammer is the sole tool. I think about this as I read A Whole New Mind by Daniel Pink and a passage regarding “Symphony,” which mentions the importance of “understanding the relationships between relationships” (Pink 142), the kind of “big-picture thinking” important in so many areas of life. Pink's audience is primarily the business field, but his insight certainly applies to teaching and learning. The instructor attempts to help students see the big-picture—the relationships between their own experiences and the course content, between each other as students, and between courses.Today, I ask the students to write about someone they consider a moral person, a person they may know personally or someone they have heard about. I ask them to identify both the virtues as well as the particular actions these individuals display—in other words, both the being and doing aspects of the moral life. I want them to observe and understand the differences between what Frankena terms the aretaic (judgments related to moral virtue) qualities and the deontic (judgments related to moral obligation) ones (Frankena 9). As they write, I contemplate how much time to allow for this assignment. Over time, I have been able to sense when they're done, as I scan the room watching the writing process occur.Pink's notion of Symphony is similar to McDermott writing about connections to things and between things. Is it possible to create a Symphony in the classroom with students from such diverse backgrounds, who have such diverse goals and interests? This is a kind of metaphor that Pink talks about—but to what extent is it possible to help students develop this quality of Symphony? What are the obstacles to this approach? To what extent does the course content lend itself to making connections or creating a Symphony? Pink describes Symphony as “the ability to put together the pieces . . . the capacity to synthesize rather than to analyze; to see relationships between seemingly unrelated fields; to detect broad patterns rather than to deliver specific answers; and to invent something new by combining elements nobody else thought to pair” (130). At the end of each chapter, Pink provides a Portfolio of exercises to enhance thinking in each area. For Symphony, he advocates to “Hit the Newsstand”—an exercise of browsing through ten “publications that you've never read and would likely never buy” (150). The exercise's intent is to both strengthen one's problem-solving capacity in addition to expanding intellectual thought. I tend to acquire some pedagogical ideas in this way, both familiar pieces from familiar places (like ESPN.com, the New York Times, or National Public Radio) and some unfamiliar places as well (e.g., an essay focused on Thoreau in the National Geographic).In addition to this notion of Symphony, Pink wonders if it is possible for teachers to demonstrate empathy in the classroom when interacting with students. He mentions reading facial expressions and the learning process involved for developing empathy. This sounds like Thoreau's attention to nature, gained and developed over time through immersion with nature. Empathy is also related to Symphony in that “empathetic people understand the importance of context” (Pink 168). The empathetic teacher realizes that the “difficult student” may face challenges outside the classroom (e.g., family circumstances, poverty, abuse), which make it difficult to learn.Today is a day of playing catch-up after last week's snow day. I'm conscious of “covering the content” but am reminded of a valued mentor's comment to make sure the students have a quality experience. He emphasized the importance of quality instruction versus rushing through a course at the detriment of student learning. I don't feel rushed today and allow plenty of time for large-group discussion and small-group work. On those days when I find myself talking more than normal, I can sense a staleness gradually beginning to permeate the classroom. A few students may be tuned in for the duration, but I remind myself to allow for pregnant pauses, time for reflection, and quiet if need be—in order for students to process the material and hopefully formulate questions or comments. This aspect of patience is key for teaching as well, a quality Bugbee underscores: “It takes many, many days to learn of what may and may not be in the river. Let us wade right in and keep fishing where we are, with our fingertips touching the trembling line” (86). To teach well requires an infinite patience and bravery as evidenced by the fisher, as well as elements of creativity and artfulness.Anderson writes on the balance needed as part of an effective pedagogical approach: “An autonomy that is not complemented and placed in tension by this responsibility will remain arbitrary, incoherent, and reckless” (“Creative Teachers” 42). Educators benefit from the freedom to create lesson plans, select texts, and create assessment tools, but do so within a broader responsibility to the students, the institution, and community. Also, “creativity occurs in the ongoing tension between risk and responsibility” (“Creative Teachers” 42). I wonder, to what extent do we really have creative teachers in higher education? We attend teaching and learning workshops, but they often are related to technology—how to use the latest gadgets in the classroom (i.e., clickers, iPads). I've been reluctant to go this route, not that I'm necessarily anti-technology, but I'm concerned that these tools may be attempts to mask a deeper problem. If someone is ineffective with the whiteboard and marker, can this individual really teach any differently or better with an iPad or clicker? Most instructors I know take their responsibility in the classroom very seriously. They are passionate about their content and want students to learn.I'm struck, though, by how much we prepare our lessons and content and what little attention we place on relationships—between students themselves and between ourselves and the students. I'd like to think I encourage my students toward growth, inviting them to learn about the content and academic discipline. Yet, at times, students impact my education as well; as I explain moral theory today, Karim nods and smiles from the back row, as if to say “[y]es, I'm with you, you can do it” in his affirming and positive and gentle way. Brian reminds me of the need for politeness as he greets and departs each day—the importance of small and frequent encounters with the other. I do not expect all students to demonstrate these overt behaviors, and yet I draw energy from these students and the eyes of other students around the classroom.Anderson writes at length about the concept of agape love: “When a teacher's passion for his subject matter is genuine and committed, it shows itself and transforms students; they too become believers in its importance” (“Creative Teachers” 45). This passion is indeed genuine and not contrived. It is also committed and represents the identity of the teacher. Students can tell when teachers are not walking the walk, so to speak; they can tell when their instructors care about them. Emerson emphasizes this point: “Only so much do I know, as I have lived. Instantly we know whose words are loaded with life, and whose not” (Portable Emerson 59). I feel this sense as a teacher, that when I have direct experience with the subject matter, I can tell my own narrative, or point toward others, I have a better chance of connecting with students because they know my words are “loaded with life” as opposed to talking in abstractions or speaking words devoid of lived experience. When professors forgo the practice, they also forgo the opportunities to experience as Emerson recommends, and their presence in the classroom becomes much less pregnant with possibility and lacks the promise and attention and insight that the experiential professor brings to the table. For the educator, “[l]ife lies behind us as the quarry from whence we get tiles and copestones for the masonry of to-day” (Portable Emerson 61). The art of teaching necessitates learning how to place these tiles and copestones in the appropriate manner such as to build in a creative and life-giving way. This love also demonstrates itself in the relationship between teachers and students. My best teachers—June Davidhizar, Verna de Jong, Doug Anderson, Scott Kretchmar—portrayed a sense of genuine concern both for their discipline and for their students. They demonstrated agape love, and they lived out their academic discipline.In Palmer's book Let Your Life Speak, he writes: “I had simply found a ‘noble’ way to live a life that was not my own, a life spent imitating heroes instead of listening to my heart” (3). This can happen to teachers even when teaching is what we're supposed to do. We may end up emulating our own best teac