In the Zen Monastery

In the Zen monastery, in a monk’s daily life there is time for meeting with the master of the temple, the Roshi. This meeting consists of a single activity. The Roshi will give the monk a koan, a cryptic phrase or question, a sort of paradox or puzzle, about which to think. The sound of one hand clapping or trees falling, unobserved, in the woods.

The monk will go away and think about the koan and the next day will meet again with the Roshi to give an answer. The Roshi may ask questions to probe the answer and to check for deeper understanding and, if he is unsatisfied he will send the monk away again, until the next day. When, eventually, the Roshi is satisfied with the monk’s answer he will give him another koan and the process will repeat.

There is no ultimate goal for this process. There is no finish point. No final grade, exam, or point of progression. It simply continues for as long as the monk is at the monastery.

My students go through a similar process in some ways. I give them an essay title or question, they give me an essay. I ask some questions, give some responses and either give them a new title or get them to keep working.

The difference, though, with the Zen monks is that they realise something my students rarely do. It’s not the essays, in themselves, that I’m most interested in. For me, in teaching them, it isn’t the end product that I’m valuing, it’s the process they have gone through. The Zen monks realise that the value of their study of the Koans is not in coming to an answer, but in looking for an answer - and I would like my students to hold a similar approach. For many of my students, an essay is like ascending a mountain - they want to stand proud and plant a flag at the end. For me, it is all they’ve learnt, all they’ve done, in making such an ascent that is valuable. It is precisely what they learned on the way up that will allow them to scale other peaks - much more so than the selfie at the summit will.

One of the ways the Roshi will instil this idea in the monks is to be difficult when they come to him. He might not show up, or he might not listen, or he might mock them, or immediately turn them away, or simply repeat their answers back to them. However, he responds he still insists that they keep thinking and keep trying. They have to see that it is the practice that offers value not the answer.

Can I take the same approach to my students? Perhaps not. But I can certainly do more to show them where the value lies in their work. Unless absolutely necessary, I don’t put grades on work any more. I don’t want them to see the purpose of working an essay as being given a single letter or number at the end. I also spend a great deal of time encouraging students to write and rewrite their essays, something I ask them to do in more iterations than they often see as being worthwhile at the time. Often I will have a copy, to hand, for each philosophy student of their very first essay to be able to show them the progress they are making, but that they cannot see.

I can do much more here, I am sure, but by thinking of the Roshi I can perhaps focus my students on the process rather than on the product.