models and metaphors

Although not yet an entry in this blog, for awhile I have been pondering the idea that science educators should rely more heavily upon scientific phenomena as models to explain their research. The very best example I have experienced is the "self-organizing critical systems" model that Andy Hurford once used to describe learning. Briefly, just as each particle that falls onto a sand pile has a statistical probability to cause a structural shift, so too do new experiences have a probabilistic chance of affecting a cognitive rearrangement. Here, a fascinating science concept is appropriate to explain a more elusive phenomenon, namely conceptual change. We should do more of this.

The notion of a pile of free metaphors renewed the potential value of this idea. The contrast is that rather than pulling a metaphor from a bin of "gently used devices" the starting point would be a scientific representation that would be re-cast as a mechanism to explain something. Not that there's anything inappropriate about using a literary metaphor (e.g., "creating a fundable project is like a visit to a cupcake bar") but rather the science metaphor elicits a different type of response — less admiration and appreciation for the cleverness of connections and more about rolling up one's sleeves and getting dirty with the idea.

Recently, a scientist suggested that our stumbling efforts to capture our work might be represented as trophic guilds. A quick search of articles revealed a piece called Insect community composition and trophic guild structure in decaying logs from eastern Canadian pine-dominated forests. The abstract explains that different species of insects are found on rotting logs and that they had different specializations. (This brought to mind the succession of insects found on rotting bodies and how insect evidence is used to solve crimes … but that book has been written and reviewed.) Here we can notice the flaws with appropriating a flawed scientific model and the parallel circumstance wherein a metaphor breaks down:

Of 27 families that were classified as "common" (present in >25% of the logs from at least one decay class), 19 were found to vary significantly in rank-abundance across decay classes, with nearly all of these favouring logs that were either in an early (class I) or late (classes III-IV) stage of decomposition. These associations also reflected functional differences in trophic guild structure: xylophages and predators tended to be most abundant in fresh logs, whereas saprophages, fungivores, predators, and parasitoids tended to be most abundant in more highly decayed logs.

My interpretation of a functioning guild was that it consisted of individuals at various stages and they were traversing along a pathway so some might achieve master status. In contrast, the trophic guilds model depicts workers at different stages that are static. With a downed pine log, the process involves disassembly as material moves from one class to the next. The laborers remain at the same station while the objects are transformed. I believe that the problem with applying trophic guilds to our efforts is that we imagine individuals becoming more skilled as a consequence of their refinement. It isn't the material that is transformed but it is the individual who emerges as a new product as a consequence of being a member of the guild.

Perhaps therein resides some of the utility of trying out new metaphors and models, namely it makes clear what it is and what it is not. In terms of conservation efforts in the natural world, the trophic guild notion is effective for planning what to do with rotten logs as well as how to accommodate grazers on the African savanna (I can't help but note that in this context the "elephants" are called "megaheribvores"). However, from a sociological perspective, I think the naturalists have misappropriated and misinterpreted the complexity of guilds. The distinctions between craftsmen in a workshop and workers in a factory are substantial. And so I'm grateful for the "usefully wrong" suggestion that Crossroads be equated with a trophic guild. The challenge now is to better articulate what Crossroads is to more clearly distance it from less accurate representations.

lawns & yards

We have a yard. The folks on t.v. have lawns. I could have a lawn if I wanted even though the Scotts Lawn Service website won't visit our zip code. I know what it would take to overcome the poor soil and intense shade. Loads of topsoil, a delivery of sod, and a vigilant watering/feeding schedule would do the trick. But instead, less through neglect and more by choice, our grass is sketchy and skritchy but the ornamentals are a source of delight.

If I was a lawn man, then I probably wouldn't waste time dividing hostas to fill entire beds. I wouldn't be startled that two hops vines have emerged and are already 2 feet high. There would be no space for tulips or iris or day lilies: instead of their thick pointy leaves, blades of grass would dominate the land surrounding our house. Of course it doesn't have to be that way and my work schedule would allow me the time to generate the type of lawn they show as botanical pornography between gardening shows on PBS television.

It won't win any contests, this yard of ours. What we have would not count for many people. But that is someone else problem and not mine. It is my yard and it offers challenges without becoming a battle. I pry out dandelions when I can but I don't use chemicals to choke them. Nevertheless, the yard has value to me because it suits me. It is mine and I can do (or not do) what I want. And if someone else wants to say that my puttering doesn't count or that I don't have a true lawn, then I'm okay with that.

There is something meaningful about having a yard that unfolds in unexpected ways. I don't really want to put in the effort to create a pefect lawn. Instead, I think its exciting when a clump of unidentifiable purple shafts unfold and reveal themselves to be columbine stems. That the sedum in the strip between the sidewalk and the street made it through the winter's abuse makes me smile. I don't buy garden products that include guarantees because I'm not somebody who feels cheated if I spend money on plants and they don't perform exactly as I wanted. Truth is, some of my favored plants, including some lilac bushes, the irises, and even the hostas, were all gifts or discards from others' yards. Want counts, then, is that I was able to make use of someone else's materials to generate something that not only distracts me on sunny spring days but actually catches the eyes of passers-by.

If I said I was going to create a lawn, then I'd be chagrined by our property. But it's my own time and money that has been invested so I am pleased by what has emerged. It would be different if I was trying to reap financial benefits in terms of cultivation and/or re-sale. However, it is a yard and a pretty obvious one at that. You don't own it and I never promised anything. For me it is for me -- and by that measure, it serves my needs pretty well.

that is the ticket

Out they go, the glorious invitations to this year's event. As professional conferences go, the invitations reveal that year five is golden. They really do sparkle and it was a joy to witness the reactions when people received their very own. It's as if this quarter-sheet of glistening paper contained all the hopes and ambitions the bearer has for their life.

Through sheer coincidence, a poem by the current Poet Laureate presented itself to me (I was looking for a poem for tomorrow's research method course). Supposedly, Kay Ryan will read her poems twice so the audience can fully grasp the content. Or maybe hers are so short that a single reading can feel like a rip-off. Despite its brevity, I suspect I made the mistake of pushing my own views into its first few lines ... and the problem is that I am unsure that my interpretation is sufficient to carry its way throughout the verse. What I can claim is that I fear having an unused ticket in my pocket and am unprepared to suffer with the boredom and sadness of not applying the ticket to its intended and pre-paid purpose. Not that this means I need to rush to spend use each ticket because the anticipation is almost as much fun as the event itself. But this does remind me that when the day or life is over, there should be very few pieces left undone.

Ticket
Kay Ryan

This is the ticket
I failed to spend.
It is still in my pocket
at the fair's end.
It is not only
suffering or grief
or even boredom
of which we are
offered more than
enough.

cycles and renewal

This time of year is commonly seen as a time for renewal. Jewish people observe seder and celebrate an anniversary from an exodus from oppression. Christians observer Easter and the Messiah's escape from death. Pagans observe the return of the sun and the shift to more hours of day than night. Perhaps there's some subconscious reawakening as the land stirs from the cold and dark and the appearance of daffodils seeps into one's psyche. Regardless, this has been a week of cycles and renewal.

Most substantively was the transformation of Rob Ceglie into a doctoral-bearing individual (with all the rights and privileges therein). His was a generative defense, in part because of the topic but also by virtue of those in attendance. For the first time, audience members were encouraged to pose questions and this did not remove the formalism of the event but gave it the feel of a healthy intellectual discussion. After the audience was dismissed and the committee had their chance at the candidate, they were genuinely complimentary: everything from the methods to how effectively he situated himself (as a white man) in relation to his participants. And now the cycle moves forward a notch as he transitions into a new job that coincides with his new institution initiating a doctoral program.

In a complementary fashion, the entire science education team cleared out the storage cupboards and closet in preparation for a building remodel. Much of the stuff was obviously from the 1970s and one couldn't help but imagine the delight when our predecessors opened the boxes and put the stuff in the storage bins where they have resided ever since. Multiple drawers of wooden blocks, metal spheres, ceramic-based light switches, balloons, etc. There were many devices whose significance could not be assessed (plastic injection molding was a novelty back then) but we also were suspicious that some of these toys wouldn't past muster with their heavy metal content and so on. We filled a dumpster. But we recycled as best we could.

Many things have changed since Sputnik's beeping alerted the USA to the science education imperative. Then came the Journal of Research in Science Teaching in 1963. But those volumes and issues accumulate on shelves -- and are neglected because they are more readily available online. This moment was captured in an image that would have seemed a tragedy prior to the internet era. Now we recognize that we had probably wait too long to free up shelf space.