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UofWinds 421, Week 39 2025: One monkey mind's 10 days of silence, The Limits of Data, Dialectic Notebooks


Good morning. I'm in my IKEA wing-back chair, feeling sore (but not-injured!) from the previous day's adventure: being part of a Faculty v Students soccer game.

It promises to be a gloriously sunny Autumn day, although the forecast suggests that it will be unseasonably hot. There are so many cultural events happening in the city today but I will be forgoing all of them because we will be leaving shortly to have a short road-trip as part of a celebration for my son's birthday.

One monkey mind's 10 days of silence


There is a certain irony that my novelty-seeking self has been thinking that I should go and do a silent retreat ever since my friend told me how much she got out of the experience. I am hesitant because it would be physically challenging and uncomfortable. On the other hand, as someone who has been proselytizing that the body thinks with feelings in the body (of which the mind is a part of), it seems like something I should experience to know.

Gina Trapani went on a 10 day silent retreat and I enjoyed reading about her experiences.

What would happen if you surrendered your computer, phone, books, and pens and went silent—no contact with anyone—for 10 full days? There was something irresistible about this question to me. I needed to find out the answer for myself.

The prospect of being alone in your own head for 10 days is scary to a lot of people. I happen to be a person who loves being in my head. It’s safe, comfortable, and logical there. I rely on facts and narratives to form my understanding of the world in there. My body rarely gets involved, at least consciously. And that served me just fine—until it didn’t.

About a year ago, I left my job with a serious case of burnout. All my enthusiasm for making software had dried up. I was numb, an unfeeling robot, going through the motions, checking obligations off a list, and living to collapse on the couch after work. I had lost touch with my interests, motivation, and joy, and I didn’t know how to find them again.

When a friend told me about the 10-day silent retreat she did, my ears perked up. What better way to return to myself than almost two weeks of introspection without distraction? I didn’t know what my problem was, but I knew I could debug it if I looked inside. I researched, applied, and got accepted to a 10-day silent meditation course for leaders. I hadn’t done much meditation, but I enjoy time alone. How hard could 10 days of no obligations really be?

The Limits of Data


This week, when I was sitting at the front desk of the library, I got the kind of question that I love to hear. A student came up and explained that they knew the answer to their legal research question. But they just wanted to know why.

I also was a student who wanted to know the why before I did the work of learning. Sometimes this was to my detriment and looking back I can now see that there were times in which I should have trusted that my instructors were going to provide the context that I needed at a more appropriate time. But in general I have found that responding to the voice that asks why is this? has served me well.

The answers to questions of why are rarely written down and stated clearly. Ask why a person or organization does something to five people and you will likely get five different answers. Why is who you are. Why is contested space. Why is theory. Why is where we try to create meaning. Why might be cause and effect. Why might be cause and affect. We might have created a why after the fact to make us feel better. Why might be historical. Why might be cultural. Why might be structural.

For example, why do we give students a letter grade?

The Limits of Data is an essay from philosopher C. Thi Nguyen that I have returned to several times since it was published last Winter. In it, Nguyen uses the exam of student grading to make his larger argument: Data is powerful because it’s universal. The cost is context.

An easy example is grading. I’m a philosophy professor. I issue two evaluations for every student essay: one is a long, detailed qualitative evaluation (paragraphs of written comments) and the other is a letter grade (a quantitative evaluation). The quantitative evaluation can travel easily between institutions. Different people can input into the same system, so it can easily generate aggregates and averages—the student’s grade point average, for instance. But think about everything that’s stripped out of the evaluation to enable this portable, aggregable kernel.
Qualitative evaluations can be flexible and responsive and draw on shared history. I can tailor my written assessment to the student’s goals. If a paper is trying to be original, I can comment on its originality. If a paper is trying to precisely explain a bit of Aristotle, I can assess it for its argumentative rigor. If one student wants be a journalist, I can focus on their writing quality. If a nursing student cares about the real-world applications of ethical theories, I can respond in kind. Most importantly, I can rely on our shared context. I can say things that might be unclear to an outside observer because the student and I have been in a classroom together, because we’ve talked for hours and hours about philosophy and critical thinking and writing, because I have a sense for what a particular student wants and needs. I can provide more subtle, complex, multidimensional responses. But, unlike a letter grade, such written evaluations travel poorly to distant administrators, deans, and hiring departments.

Dialectic Notebooks


I have another essay from 2024 that I recently revisited: Dialectic Notebooks by Adrian Neibauer. The byline is Teaching my student how to speak with books.

Years later, I learned about the concept of teaching students to annotate texts. I always considered marking up my books as a private practice, one that helps me feel connected to the writer. When I underline or write in the margins, I am reaching across an invisible Rubicon, searching for an impossible connection with a distant writer. With every question, I am growing as a reader.
Years later in my classroom, I encouraged my students to interact with the books we read. The term Dialectic means “discussion and reasoning by dialogue as a method of intellectual investigation.” I’ve heard some describe it as a logical discussion of ideas and opinions. The term was new to me, but the act of recording our annotations made sense considering that students are never allowed to write in school library books.

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