When I began writing reports for my students, I found myself pausing — not because I lacked words, but because I was held back by a question that I could not frame. I was thinking of a seven-year-old child in my class, a child who fidgeted constantly, filed the edge of his scale repeatedly until one end had become triangular in shape, and rarely sat still. Yet, when questions were posed in class he responded intuitively, expressing his understanding through language that felt personal and comfortable. As I prepared to describe his learning progress and participation in a report to his parents, I stopped. What could I say? Could I tell them that the child was learning to listen, even though he was physically restless?
My hesitation brought me face-to-face with my assumptions about listening. Can I assume that only a child who sits still, stays upright and is quiet is actually listening, while the one who moves is not? Where did such expectations come from, and why had I neglected to examine them? I noticed this assumption surfacing in other moments too: a child doodled in his notebook while I was speaking — and yet was able to answer questions accurately; a student gazed out of the window instead of listening — but later recalled the details of a story with precision; the one who hummed softly during a class discussion could still thoughtfully build on a peer’s idea. Each instance made me look again at what listening might actually mean in a classroom.
Often, in a noisy classroom I have observed that the noise hardly disrupts students’ work. Children continue talking, moving about, negotiating with each other about which materials to use, orienting themselves to one another, all at once. When a task is introduced, especially one that requires making a choice or collaborating with others, the noise has a different rhythm. Some conversations continue, others cease, and most children seem to settle into their work with involvement. They are engaged, absorbed, and work harmoniously in their own ways. I stay with the noise, intervening only when the sound tips from the humming of shared engagement into a note of disturbance or exclusion. I have noticed similar patterns during group projects, open-ended art projects and group discussions, where an initial swell of sound gives way to sustained focus in their interactions.
This has led me to a different question. If engagement in a task is possible regardless of the ambient noise, will a higher volume of it disturb some children? For instance, during our Project Day preparations, we went as a group to study our school’s water system. The children observed the pipes and connections across different buildings, and many questions were asked in quick succession. As we were about to complete the tour, one student quietly moved away and sat on the sand near the playground. I later asked her why and she said she had had a question to ask but did not voice it. When I enquired further, she said that since others were repeatedly raising their hands, she did not feel inclined to do the same. The volume and pace of participation seemed to have silenced her.
On another occasion, we were together preparing apple sandwiches in our dining hall. The room was buzzing with the children’s chatter and movement. In the midst of this, one child stepped outside, saying that the space felt too noisy and that he did not feel well in it. The activity continued, yet his response revealed how noisy enthusiasm can be overwhelming for some.
Reflecting on the art of listening in the classroom, I hear from some children — especially those who are soft-spoken — that they must raise their voices simply to be heard. This unsettles me, and I wonder what kind of space we should create in a classroom, wherein one needs to raise one’s voice in order to be heard. I also see that classroom noise is not produced by children alone. Adults may also contribute to classroom noise by issuing repeated instructions, or by speaking louder in the effort to manage classroom behaviour. There are overlapping conversations going on too, and everyone feels the urgency to be heard above the din. In such a space, the volume slowly replaces attentiveness, and listening itself becomes competitive rather than relational.
At the other end of the spectrum are children who are consistently loud. I wonder how to listen to them with understanding and sensitivity—and not superficially, not by repeatedly asking them to lower their volume? How can I hear the need for attention in their voices if they speak so loud? Krishnamurti reminds us that ‘listening is an art, not a mechanical process. To listen, there must be an inward quietness, a freedom from strain’. I find myself exploring this inward quietness — what it is, why it is so difficult to sustain in a classroom, and how classroom noise might affect students who are listening attentively and quietly? Perhaps it is not merely the absence of noise that matters, but also the quality of attention that is unhurried and receptive. With the pressures of following a routine, meeting expectations, and responding to constant needs, the quietness in classrooms just seems to slip away….
As I ponder these questions, I see that my inquiry does not stop with the classroom. It turns inward. I realize that I tend to respond to louder voices, especially ones that insist on something, repeat what has been said, and all in all, demand immediate attention. These voices dominate, interrupt and drown quiet perception. When I listen only to them, I get caught up and carried away. To listen beyond this outward noise requires that a teacher pauses long enough to take notice of what lies beneath the urgency—feelings, uncertainties, or insights that do not announce themselves loudly, yet are seeking recognition.
There have been other moments when, having noticed a child’s quietness, I have found multiple interpretations promptly arising in my mind — for instance, whether the child does not enjoy dancing? Is she uncomfortable with the group? Here, I am reminded of an incident during a Parents’ Day practice—twenty participants were divided into pairs. One student remained very quiet from the beginning. When I eventually asked her about the dance, she not only responded but also surprised me with what she said. She suggested a few movements that could take our performance to an all-new level. Her idea was enthusiastically received by the entire group, and they were happy to incorporate the new steps into their dance routine. What I had first read as withdrawal was actually observation and introspection.
On another occasion, during a class discussion following a field trip to a lake, one participant was sitting by a window, absorbed in thought. When I asked him gently what he was thinking about, I found out that he was unhappy that a schoolmate who was absent that day had missed the experience. His consideration for this fellow student had not been outwardly visible. Thinking back, I begin to see how easily a quick assumption can overcome quieter perceptions and how much more becomes perceptible if I pause long enough to listen.
As I return to writing reports, this question of how best to approach listening remains. I begin to feel that it is one that accepts both restlessness and stillness, noise and quiet. Perhaps one cannot prescribe how to listen, especially to children; neither is it a behaviour I can easily communicate to them. It also demands a different quality of attention from me — one that does not measure compliance or the ability to stay still. Listening differently, then, may involve resisting the impulse to label or correct, and instead patiently observing and meeting whatever is unfolding in class with an open mind. Without rushing to name or fix this approach, I sense that listening to what is beyond the noise — both outer noise and inner insistence—requires greater care and humility. I am still learning what that asks of me.
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In listening there is no grasping, no taking. All that is listened to comes to us. The relaxed brain is in a state of natural non-function, simply attentive without any specific direction. We can never objectify listening, because that would mean to put it in the frame of space and time. It is listening to oneself.
—Jean Klein, Dialogue at the Day of Listening, Fairfax,
California: May 22, 1991