Klingbrief

While disagreement is natural and can even be fruitful, in her book High Conflict: Why We Get Trapped and How We Get Out, Amanda Ripley emphasizes the negative consequences of us-vs.-them thinking that can escalate rather than mitigate violence. Through the use of different real-life narratives involving environmentalists, lawyers, politicians, mediators, former gang members, religious leaders, and more, Ripley repeatedly demonstrates the importance of recognizing and interrupting high conflict, which she defines as self-perpetuating and all-consuming discord. To recognize (and therefore interrupt) high conflict, Ripley advises us to listen carefully for “sweeping, grandiose, or violent language” and to look out for “rumors, myths, or conspiracy theories.” If the conflict seems to “have its own momentum” and causes others to withdraw, “leading to the appearance of just two binary extremes,” chances are good that the situation needs immediate and intentional de-escalation. As impactful as noticing high conflict in the world can be, Ripley argues, it is even more important to notice it in ourselves and strive instead for the behaviors and feelings associated with “good conflict,” humility, fluidity, curiosity, non-zero-sum thinking, solution-seeking, and feelings of sadness when bad things happen to the other side. An interdisciplinary reminder of the fundamental power of the golden rule, Ripley’s research points to the part we each play in advancing productive debate and the peaceful exchange of ideas. 

Much like its title, a new book by Corey Keyes offers both an acknowledgment of a global and personal health problem of languishing and a beckoning to grow towards an approachable sense of flourishing. Languishing refers to a sense of “restless emptiness” and is increasingly impacting people of all ages and in nearly all stages of life. Because experiences or observations of languishing are increasingly ubiquitous, one can read this book as a mirror to one’s own experiences or observations, resonate with its descriptions of languishing, or find guidance in what flourishing can be. Early on, Keyes offers a vision: “When students walk across that stage, take their diploma and graduate, they should feel happy and engaged in their lives, with a sense of direction and personal growth, accepting of themselves and others, and eager to contribute to not just their community but society at large.” To promote such valuable educational outcomes, Keyes encourages us to invest in mental health, not just treat mental illness. He offers “vitamins” for flourishing and strategies to function well and be more whole. Through storytelling, data, and relevant philosophical applications, Keyes provides us with the language and first steps we might need to move from a sense of hopelessness to a sense of inspiration in confronting the challenges of the mental health crises adults and children are experiencing. 

When Adam Grant, the balanced, wise, and respected author, writes what might sound like a complaint about students, one pays attention. The article “No, You Don’t Get an A for Effort,” is not a whine at all. It is a revealing tracking of an idea – in fact, a misunderstanding – that we may have raised Gen Z students on: that effort is an end in itself and should equate to high marks. To make his point, Grant takes us back to the groundbreaking work of Carol Dweck who more than a generation ago changed the conversation of adults with children from praising intelligence to praising effort. Her work offered evidence that encouraging a growth mindset in our students’ understanding of their capacities is preferable to language that promotes a fixed mindset about ability. Cut to today and the student who is asking for an A. Has there been a slip in our application of Dweck’s important message? Grant tells his students that he wants to give as many A’s as possible but that these marks won’t come only through diligence; rather, he expects a steady, balanced approach to participation, study, writing, following fruitful pathways forward, showing up, improving, and above all, gaining mastery of knowledge and skills. In his words, A’s are “not for what one puts in, but what one takes out,” a course-correction for educators to own and for students to understand in both theory and practice.

Given the current political climate regarding inclusive practices, it may be timely to review how these practices improve learning outcomes. This rich video series offers an accessible and research-backed lens into the science of learning and development. Grounded in key principles from neuroscience, psychology, and education, the series explores how relationships, emotion, and environment shape students’ capacity to learn. Topics such as brain development, executive function, attachment, and culturally responsive teaching are unpacked through compelling classroom footage and expert commentary. By connecting theory to practice, the series helps educators reframe challenges through a developmental lens and adopt more empathetic, evidence-based approaches. It invites reflection on how teacher-student relationships, classroom routines, and emotional regulation can shape learning outcomes. For teachers seeking to deepen their understanding and improve their practice, How Learning Happens offers a concise, powerful professional learning experience that strengthens the foundation for equitable, trauma-informed, and engaging classrooms.

John Warner’s More Than Words is a brilliant overview of the challenges and opportunities presented by generative AI tools. Warner, a familiar, iconoclastic figure in the discourse around writing instruction, offers a readable, witty state of play in AI, but the real gift of the book is its grounding in a deeper set of humanist commitments to teaching students to write and to think. Warner is more sanguine than most about what AI can’t do (example: AI tools are “not threatening anything meaningful because [they are not] capable of producing any output that conveys meaning”), which might strike some readers as misrepresenting how students understand this technology. However, in framing his arguments around a deeply humanist reverence for the practice of writing, Warner challenges educators to create learning experiences that are meaningful, reflective, and scaffolded with such intentional care that students will understand the appropriate uses of AI tools. Moreover, Warner is clear that teachers need to understand what AI is doing – and not doing – in order to approach it responsibly in the classroom. Warner advocates for a reasonable, considered approach, importantly moving past theory and critique to concrete strategies and imagining a future for writing instruction shorn of the tedium and staleness of traditional writing instruction. Part IV, organized around the guideposts of “resist, renew, explore,” offers even more nuance and an effective framework for how to make sense of this technology; it’s where this book moves past offering just a diagnosis and closer to articulating a way forward. Teaching may be harder now, but what we’re up against is clearer, and the need for alignment between our values and our practices has become even more necessary as we figure out how to teach in this challenging technological moment. Rooted in a deeply humanistic vision for teaching and learning, Warner’s manifesto is an essential read. 

Christine Rosen’s article "Signature Moves: Are We Losing the Ability to Write by Hand?” (an extract from her book The Extinction of Experience) is beautifully written and contains poignant reflections for educators. “However thoroughly we lose ourselves in the vortex of our invention,” she writes, “we inhabit a corporeal world.” Rosen examines the decline of handwriting as an analogue of the larger decline of physicality in our daily lives, noting, “Our choice of tools and the way we use them facilitates not only habits of hand but also habits of mind.” In other words, as teachers know well, how we learn is closely intertwined with what we learn. For example, “We retain information better when we write by hand because the slower pace of writing forces us to summarize as we write, as opposed to the greater speed of transcribing on a keyboard.” Rosen raises concern about “unrecoverable ways of learning and knowing, particularly for children” – and reminds us of “the vast evolutionary history that fitted us for physical movement and expression as a means of understanding our world.”

In The Work of Art, Adam Moss engages artists, writers, filmmakers, musicians, chefs, editors, and designers to uncover how creativity begets “something from nothing.” Rather than an individual act of genius, Moss presents creativity as an iterative, often unpredictable process. Through the stories, interviews, and artifacts Moss curates, creativity emerges as a mindset as well, one that draws on – and out – various capacities. Novelist Michael Cunningham reflects on the capacity for self-surprise. Composer Stephen Sondheim celebrates precision fused with flexibility. Artist Kara Walker highlights feeling new at a project’s start. Chef Samin Nosrat values entangling a beginner’s mind with one's expertise. Perhaps surprisingly, The Work of Art also emphasizes capacities like practicing self-editing as strategic decision making and cultivating an inner faith that you can make something of what's before you. These insights about creativity implicitly invite readers to consider the potential of creativity in daily life and work. Imagine an approach to teaching, leading, or school design through which such creativity thrives. Imagine creativity as an aesthetic pursuit as well as a collective, civic one. Ultimately, The Work of Art invites us to consider how we might think of creativity not only as making, but as being.