People, Practice, and Possibilities:
A Monthly Guide for Educators

Where do you go to catch a spark?

I’ve been asking that question a lot since I saw the film “A Complete Unknown.” I can’t claim to have been a lifelong fan of Bob Dylan, but I loved the film.

I especially loved the early scene where Timothée Chalamet’s Dylan visits an ailing Woody Guthrie in a dim, dreary infirmary. At Guthrie’s side sits Ed Norton as Pete Seeger, who asks Dylan what brought him there. The young Dylan replies that he came to see Woody, hoping to catch a spark.

I’ve asked many family members, friends, colleagues, and even clients the same question: Where do you go to find a spark? 

I’ve found more sparks than I could have hoped for while working alongside individuals and teams as they launch the 2025-26 school year.

As educators, we know the challenges will come, but we begin the school year with heads full of plans and hearts full of hope. And the launch asks much of us—time, focus, patience, collaboration, and recommitment—and promises much in return: connection, discovery, and, if we’re open to it, awe.

Dr. Dacher Keltner, who studies awe, defines the word not as something reserved for mountaintops or masterpieces, but as a response to anything that expands our sense of what’s possible and connects us to something larger than ourselves. He believes that awe softens the ego, enhances well-being, and invites collaboration. He suggests that awe is not a distraction from the work—it is the work, reframed.

He introduces eight “pillars” of awe, i.e., where to find it:

• In acts of moral beauty that remind us of human goodness
• In the collective effervescence of shared purpose and belonging
• In quiet moments surrounded by nature
• In the stirrings of our souls through music
• In the beauty of art and design
• In sacred rituals and moments of spiritual connection
• In witnessing the sacred transitions of birth and death
• And in the big ideas that reframe what we thought and knew

Or, as we educators know, we find awe in schools.

So here’s an idea for this new year: keep an awe inventory. Not a bulletin board or assessment tool, just a personal record of the moments that give you pause. The student who asks a question no one saw coming. The laughter in the hallway between bells. The way a lesson unexpectedly lands. A morning light on an empty classroom. A seemingly simple “Hello” that you know means more.

What if these aren’t distractions? What if they’re reminders of why we do what we do? Awe, says Keltner, doesn’t just elevate our mood—it expands our thinking. It helps us make room for complexity, for grace, for each other.

In the poem Make the Ordinary Extraordinary, William Martin writes: “Do not ask your children to strive for extraordinary lives… show them the joy of tasting tomatoes, apples, and pears.” That line reads differently when you teach. It doesn’t mean we ask less of students—it means we show them how to look more closely. How to find meaning not just in outcomes, but in attention.

Educators know in our bones that learning isn’t just about acquiring knowledge, but also about enlarging our capacity to wonder. Still, it’s easy to forget in the blur of schedules, goals, and emails. But we can choose to notice what notices us back. And in doing so, we model for students a different way of moving through the world—not driven only by achievement, but by curiosity and care.

So as the year begins, I invite you to keep your own awe inventory. Just a mental list, a quiet practice. Five seconds to say: “That moved me.” No need to justify or explain. Just name it. Honor it. Savor it.

Because awe isn’t a reward for finishing the work. It’s a companion that makes the work worth doing. And in schoolhouses, classrooms, everywhere, it’s waiting to be noticed.

Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may be admirable,
but it is the way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples, and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.

William Martin