Freedom in Form

In 2015 I entered the CiRCE Apprenticeship–a three-year apprenticeship teaching teachers the mimetic mode of instruction. Within the first few days of my first retreat, I had learned the stages of the mimetic sequence, and by the end of that same week, I was expected to develop and teach a lesson that conformed to those stages. I was being taught to teach using a form, and the most important thing in that first week was simply to use the form. I could get better at it later. I would get better at it later, but at first, I just had to be conformed.

We also wrote persuasive essays in the Apprenticeship. To do so, we learned forms for invention, arrangement, and elocution, which are the first three canons of classical rhetoric. Every essay implemented all three forms in order. My mentor provided assessment and feedback on each canon for every essay. If my mentor informed me that my work did not conform to the canon, then I revised it accordingly and resubmitted it to my mentor for approval. I was being taught to write using a form, and the most important thing at first was simply to use the form. I could get better at it later; I would get better at it later, but at first, I just had to be conformed.

At my second retreat, while discussing Plato’s Meno dialogue, Andrew Kern commented that the goal of reading Plato is to learn to think like Socrates, not that any of us can actually do it, but that is what we are seeking. Andrew’s comment pointed toward another form—a form of inquiry, of truth-seeking through dialectic. Some folks read Plato as if the dialogue is simply a clever format for a treatise or worse, for a bully pulpit. Reading Plato as if his writings are merely a cleverly disguised treatise is to misunderstand both the nature and the purpose of a Platonic dialogue, which leads one to read Plato inappropriately. But reading Plato to be conformed to the dialectical search for truth is to honor both the nature and purpose of his dialogues and therefore, to read him with great benefit. I was being taught to seek the form of Socrates’ inquiry, and the most important thing at first was to seek the form. I could get better at inquiry later; I would get better at it later, but at first, I just had to seek the form.

These forms were a joy to me for these forms provided freedom from my own way of doing things—freedom from the ruts that I had worn into my teaching, writing, and thinking over the years. I had not come to the CiRCE Institute to teach them how to teach or to teach them how to write or think. I was not spending the money, the time, or the effort in the Apprenticeship to conform them to my image. The CiRCE Institute didn’t come to me; I came to them, and the forms I received for teaching, writing, and thinking are a few of the most valuable things I now possess.

The forms we learned for teaching, writing, and inquiry were all caricatures. They placed thick, black lines around things that in reality do not have thick, black lines around them. But the thick, black lines help us distinguish between how we used to teach and how we could be teaching; how we used to write and how we could be writing; how we used to think and how we could be thinking. Eventually, the thick, black lines become grayer and grayer until we barely notice them anymore, but the better habits of teaching, writing, and thinking remain.

Better habits from better forms can be hard to acquire on one’s own. I can look in the mirror all day long, but I’ll never see myself through any other eyes than my own. For all the benefits of better forms, a person who wants to be conformed to better habits needs a mentor. Even better than that is a mentor who used to be where the apprentice now is, and every head mentor in the CiRCE Apprenticeship was once an apprentice. When I was at my first retreat and had to prepare my first lesson, my mentor remembered what that was like and had suggestions on how to complete the task. When I was shaking in my boots just prior to teaching my first lesson, my mentor remembered shaking in his boots and recounted the story of his first mimetic lesson. Every new student of mimetic teaching needs an old lover of mimetic teaching to walk alongside. When I needed to learn new forms for writing, my mentor remembered learning new forms for writing and could help me do it well. Every new student of classical rhetoric needs an old lover of classical rhetoric to give them feedback. When I learned new forms for inquiry, my mentor remembered learning new forms for inquiry and could help me navigate the Socratic dialogues. Every new reader of Plato needs an old lover of Plato reading with them. There is nothing better than learning new forms from one who has also learned and loves those same forms.

Consider becoming an apprentice. Consider submitting yourself to a mentor. Consider whether you are ready to seek and find the freedom that can only come through better forms.