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Chapter 5

Mind as Ecosystem

If the mind is not a computer in the constructivist perspective, then what is it? Influential

scholars, such a Jean Piaget, used a mind as ecosystem metaphor. To make sense of this

metaphor, we first need to make sense of what an ecosystem is.

In the mid-nineties, a friend talked me into taking our families to Yellowstone for the

opening of the fishing season on the Yellowstone River (it’s not hard to talk me into a fishing

trip). The day of the opener, my friend and I got up in the dark, put on our waders, grabbed our

fly rods, and headed off. As we neared the river, we entered a blanket of mist rising off the water

and creeping over the banks. The mist, combined with the grey light of dawn, made the whole

area feel surreal and insubstantial. I could hear the subtle slurp, slurp of feeding fish as I

anxiously tied on a fly and waited for the appointed time of the opener. Finally, the magic hour

arrived and I cast my fly onto the river. It didn’t take long for the first fish to rise up and inhale

the fly. After a brief battle, I led the fish into a small eddy by the bank where I was able to slide

my hand under its belly and turn it on its side. I marveled at the beauty of the fish. It was a

Yellowstone Cutthroat trout all decked out in spawning colors. Even in the early morning light, I

could see its golden side and bright red gill plate. Under its throat were the flaming orange

stripes that give the Cutthroat its name. I removed the fly and released the fish back into the

river. As the morning progressed, the bank of mist enveloping us transformed into a brilliant

festival of light as it was touched by the sun’s first rays. Coyotes soon began to howl at the birth

of the new day and fish began to rise with enthusiasm. I distinctly remember pausing in the midst

of all this and thinking to myself, this is just remarkable!

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Cheesy, I know. But it is what it is. Some ten or so years later, I was on another fishing

trip and met two elderly gentlemen from Montana. I told them of my opening day experience on

the Yellowstone River. One of them grunted in response, “No one shows up for the opener

anymore.”

“What? Why not?” I asked in dismay.

“No cutthroats,” he replied. Then he mentioned the lake trout in Yellowstone Lake. Ugh.

The lake trout. I knew someone had illegally planted lake trout, but I had no idea the problem

had gotten so bad. Here is the full story.

The Yellowstone cutthroat is the native trout to Yellowstone Lake and the surrounding

rivers and tributaries, having migrated to the area after glacial ice receded some 7,000 to 8,000

years ago. As a native species, the Yellowstone cutthroat is prized by the park service and

numerous visitors who like to think of Yellowstone as a preserved piece of wilderness history.

The species is also prized by fisherman, for its beauty, willingness to take flies off the surface,

and, quite simply, for the fact it a native. In 1994, lake trout were discovered in Yellowstone

Lake. Lake trout are not native to the region and represent what biologists call an invasive

species. They also are drab in color and tend to live near the bottom of deep lakes, where you can

only catch them by trolling around with a heavy weight on the line—which just isn’t the same as

fly fishing. However, lake trout get big, which is why some anglers prize them and, presumably,

why someone illegally planted them in Yellowstone Lake.

As you might have suspected, lake trout get big by eating other fish. In Yellowstone

Lake, they start to eat the cutthroat by age four. By six or seven years of age, they feed almost

exclusively on cutthroats. Researchers have estimated that a mature lake trout will eat an average

of 41 cutthroat trout each year (Ruzycki, Beauchamp, & Yule, 2003). This is bad news for the

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Yellowstone cutthroat. Since 1994, the population has crashed. As of 2010, most estimates put

the population at about 10% of historic levels (Licis, 2010). There are additional causes for this

population crash (e.g., whirling disease). However, the introduction of lake trout seems to be, far

and away, the most significant factor.

As a native species, the Yellowstone cutthroat was important to the ecosystem

surrounding Yellowstone Lake. Consequently, the decline in the population has impacted many

other species in the region. Because the cutthroat often feed near the surface, they can be

scooped up by eagles, ospreys, or pelicans and were utilized as an important food source. Now

that food source is largely gone and so are many of the birds. Further, unlike lake trout that

spawn in the lake, cutthroats run up numerous tributaries to spawn each spring. Here they

become available to the grizzly bears, which feast on the protein rich fish much the way their

northern brothers feast on salmon. Or at least they did until the population crashed. Now the

bears have to search elsewhere for food and subsist on a poorer diet. In fact, scientists concluded

that a remarkable 42 species of birds and mammals feed (or fed) on the Yellowstone cutthroat

(Gresswell, 2009). Now the feeding and migration habits of these species have been disrupted

and these disruptions are impacting still other species. In fact, it is impossible to estimate the full

impact of the lake trout on the Yellowstone Lake ecosystem. All because someone wanted to

have another place where he could troll around for lake trout.

Making Sense of the Metaphor

Despite the degree to which I find this situation depressing, I have to admit that it serves

as a valuable example of how an ecosystem functions. An ecosystem is an interrelated system of

plants, animals, and micro-organisms, as well as the non-living components of the environment

with which they interact. Moreover, it is a dynamic, every changing system. The change may be

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slow and gradual or rapid and abrupt, but there is always change. Over time, some organisms

become more prominent, others die off, and new variations come into being.

Many learning theorists have come to think about the mind in a similar way. They

envision it as a conceptual ecosystem, or interrelated system of ideas, knowledge, memories, and

experiences that is always changing and evolving. The Swiss psychologist Jean Piaget was one

of the first to make sophisticated use of this metaphor (himself having been a child prodigy in the

study of biology). But many others have built on and applied this metaphor in unique ways (e.g.,

Posner, Strike, Hewson, & Gertzog, 1982; Verula, Thompson, & Rosch, 1992). In most cases,

the focus is on comparing the introduction of a new species in an ecosystem to the introduction

of a new idea to the mind. Let’s explore this comparison.

When a new species is introduced into an existing ecosystem, three primary outcomes are

possible. First, the new species may simply die off because it doesn’t fit into the ecosystem. This

actually may be the most common outcome. Think of it this way, of all the species of fish on the

earth, how many could survive if introduced into Yellowstone Lake? The answer: very, very few.

For the great majority of fish species, life would be very short because the environmental

conditions and available resources simply don’t match the needs of the species. Consequently,

the impact on the ecosystem would be minimal (this is making me even more depressed). A

second possible outcome is that the new species may become integrated into the ecosystem

without causing major changes. This is fairly rare in nature, but it is possible that a new species

may fit into an environmental niche that was not previously occupied and survive without

causing major displacement of native species. For example, there may be some fish that doesn’t

eat the Yellowstone cutthroat or compete for the same food source, living space, and spawning

areas. Such a fish may be introduced without causing major change to the ecosystem. It would

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simply add to the overall biomass. However, I doubt such a fish exists and if anyone proposes

introducing a “compatible” fish to another lake with native cutthroat, let’s just all agree now that

it would be bad idea, OK? The third possibility is the “invasive species takes over and wreaks

havoc throughout the ecosystem” outcome, á la the lake trout in Yellowstone Lake. If we

examined the latter two outcomes over a long period of time (i.e., several thousand years or

more), we would likely observe that the introduced species changed and adapted in response to

the environment. Thus, we could have a case in which the existing ecosystem did not

fundamentally change but the introduced species did (a variation of outcome two) or a case in

which both fundamentally changed in response to the other (a variation of outcome three). So, if

we jumped in a time machine and visited Yellowstone Lake a few thousand years in the future,

we might observe that, not only has the ecosystem changed, but the lake trout evolved to become

a very different species (it probably adapted to living in rivers so it can eat all the cutthroat in

there too, arg).

These outcomes parallel and shed light on learning outcomes. The first outcome, in

which the introduced species simply dies because it does not fit the existing environment, is

equivalent to non-learning. The new idea or knowledge simply doesn’t fit with the individual’s

existing ideas, knowledge, and experiences. In fact, it may conflict with existing ideas and be

rejected for that reason.

In the early 80s, researchers discovered a perplexing phenomenon. Many science students

entered the classroom with a set of ideas about how the world works and left the classroom with

these same ideas intact, even though they receiving instruction that contradicted the existing

beliefs. Remarkably, many of these existing beliefs persisted all the way through high school and

college. This phenomenon was illustrated cleverly in a video that has become a bit of cult classic

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among educators. The video, A Private Universe, was produced in 1987 by the Science Media

Group at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics. It opens with a scene of the

graduation ceremony at Harvard University. Various graduates are shown responding to

(seemingly) simple questions about the causes of the seasons and the phases of the moon. This

content is something kids first learn in elementary school and study again in middle school and

high school. Yet, these well-educated Harvard graduates respond by conveying some of the same

incorrect beliefs commonly expressed by children. When asked about the causes of the seasons,

children will often respond by saying that summer and winter are caused by the earth getting

closer to or farther away from the sun. Here is the response of a Harvard graduate who took a

course in physics, relatively, and—yes—planetary motion: “OK. I think the seasons happen

because as the earth travels around the sun, it gets nearer to the sun, which produces warmer

weather and gets farther away which produces colder weather.” In reality, distance has nothing to

do with the cause of the seasons. Yet this intelligent, academically-minded Harvard graduate

held onto this incorrect belief that distance is the cause of the seasons despite years of instruction

to the contrary. Are you kidding me? How is such a thing possible?

It’s possible and actually quite common (go ask your friends about the cause of the

seasons) because, according to the constructivist perspective, the mind is an active conceptual

ecosystem where ideas battle it out in a survival of the fittest type of competition. New ideas

often never make it because they cannot get a foothold in the ecology and are outcompeted by

the existing ideas. To illustrate, let’s go back to the cause of the seasons example. As I

mentioned, many kids originally develop a belief that the seasons are caused by the earth getting

closer to or farther away from the sun. Why is this belief so common? Well, consider the child’s

existing conceptual ecology. The child has had many experiences with heat sources such as a

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fire. The most basic conclusion you can construct from such experience is that the closer you get

to a heat source, the warmer it is. This idea becomes a central feature of the conceptual ecology.

Consequently, when the question of the cause of the seasons arises, well, the belief that the earth

moves closer to and farther away from the sun is the perfect answer. It makes complete logical

sense given the existing conceptual ecology. “Logical sense” is a key criterion of “fitness” in the

conceptual ecology metaphor. Those ideas that most logically fit with existing ideas and most

logically explain events in the world are the most fit. Simply put, the most fit ideas are the ones

that make the most sense.

Now consider the scientifically correct (but still incomplete) idea that kids are taught

regarding the cause of the seasons: the seasons are caused by the earth rotating around the sun on

a tilt so that sometimes the sun’s rays hit a particular part of the earth directly (summer) and

sometimes indirectly (winter). First of all, this is a much more complex explanation that often

does not make much sense. Second, this whole idea of direct and indirect rays is very abstract

and not immediately plausible. I can imagine kids asking themselves, “The angle of the sun’s

rays is the difference between 100-degree weather and freezing weather? Really? Why would the

angle make any difference at all?” Consequently, this new idea if often outcompeted by the

existing idea that makes total sense. Sure kids will parrot back what they know is supposed to be

the correct answer (e.g., Uh, yeah. The seasons are caused by the tilt of the earth), but when

pushed and after some time has passed, they revert back to the original idea. By analogy, it is as

if the introduced species hangs around on the periphery of the ecosystem for while but eventually

dies off. This outcome is all too common in education and life.

The second outcome, in which the new species fits into and survives in the existing

ecosystem without causing a major change to the ecosystem is equivalent to the learning

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outcome that Piaget referred to as assimilation. Assimilation occurs when we fit knew

information or knowledge into our existing conceptual ecosystem without substantially altering

it. For example, my eleven-year-old boy believes he is invincible. The other day, he crashed

magnificently trying to do a slam-dunk while riding his Ripstik (a type of skateboard that

somehow balances on two wheels when you shake your hips like Elvis). Yes, he actually tried to

jump off his Ripstik, slam a basketball through the hoop, land back on his Ripstik, and go

wiggling off again. It worked great all except for the landing part, which resulted in the Ripstik

flying off in one direction, my son flying off in the other direction, and a loud thud as my son’s

back crashed onto the cement. Unfazed, my son jumped up and quickly uttered his mantra, “I’m

OK!” I could see in his eyes that he had just added this experience as further confirmation of his

invincibility. That is, he assimilated this experience into his existing belief structure.

As I mentioned regarding a biological ecology, there is nearly always some change to the

existing ecosystem when a new species is introduced and the same is true of our conceptual

ecosystems when new information is added. However, if this change is relatively minor or

insignificant, we refer to the learning outcome as assimilation. Now, you may be thinking to

yourself, Wait a minute. This assimilation thing sounds just like the mind as Internet metaphor.

It’s just new information being added to an existing network. And if you were thinking this, you

would be correct. As I have presented it so far, assimilation is just like adding new links and web

pages. But, it’s not always that simple. Things get a bit more complex, and interesting in my

opinion, when we look at the constructive side of assimilation. That is, when we look at how we

often transform and alter new information to make it assimilate into our existing ideas and

beliefs. This outcome is analogous to the introduced species adapting to the new environment—

only if we accelerated the adaption process and forced it along.

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Watson and Konicek (1990) provided a great example of how we often transform

information so that it can be assimilated into our existing beliefs. They described an elementary

classroom in which the kids believed that warm clothes were warm because they produced heat.

Following good science pedagogy, the teacher decided to let the students test their theory. So the

students set up experiments all around the room. They grabbed thermometers, wrapped them in

hats, gloves, and sweaters, and left them overnight to heat up. The next day, much to the kids’

surprise, the thermometer readings remained unchanged. Did the kids immediately conclude that

their existing ideas were wrong and go about modifying their conceptual ecosystems? Of course

not! Instead, they began to modify their ideas about the experiments so the results could be

assimilated in with prior beliefs. They concluded the experiments didn’t work because either air

got in or there wasn’t enough time for the thermometers to change. So they tried the experiments

again only this time they used plastic bags, closets, and desk drawers to keep the air out and left

the thermometers in for a longer period of time. However, the kids were again disappointed

when the thermometers were removed. They still read room temperature. Surely now the kids

would begin to question their theory of warm clothes producing heat, right? No. Instead, some

concluded the thermometers were broken. Others simply stated they did not know what was

going on.

At this point, it would be easy to claim that these kids were simply being stubborn.

However, explaining their behavior solely in terms of stubbornness is similar to explaining

reactions to the O. J. Simpson trial evidence solely in terms of bias. Doing so misses the key

point that we interpret and make sense of new information in terms of our existing knowledge

and beliefs. The kids were simply interpreting the data in ways that made sense given what they

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already knew. Invariably, this process of interpretation results in a transformation of the new

information.

The video, A Private Universe, provides another illustration of how we transform new

ideas so they can be assimilated into existing beliefs. Heather, an intelligent and articulate

eighth-grade student, is asked to explain the cause of the seasons. At first she gives a perfectly

reasonable explanation. But when asked to explain direct and indirect rays, she expresses a belief

that indirect rays are ones that bounce off something before hitting the earth: “When the light

comes from the sun, when it’s direct, it comes straight! from the sun to the earth. And when the

light’s indirect it sort of bounces off and! then comes to the Northern Hemisphere.” (When I

watch this video with my students, I always picture her thinking, duh, we wouldn’t call them

indirect rays if they went directly from the sun to the earth!) Heather is interviewed again at the

conclusion of an astronomy unit and she again expresses her theory that indirect light bounces

off something: “Sort of if you had a light in front of a mirror…so if you had the mirror here and

light !here, then the light would bounce and here we would have winter because it! sort of bounces

off something.” One of the interviewers tries to correct Heather’s misconception by producing a

diagram illustrating that direct rays hit the earth perpendicularly while indirect rays hit at a slant.

Heather is then asked to re-explain direct and indirect rays. She responds:

The earth’s here and the sun’s rays are going directly to the Northern! Hemisphere. That

would be summer. Because you know the rays are stronger. Both! because they weren’t

interrupted with anything and because they would be closer !together. Like shown right

here [she points to the diagram]. And when the Northern Hemisphere is farther away !it

would be winter up here because the, um, rays from the sun would have a slant and! sort

of bounce off other parts of the Earth. (emphasis added)

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By concluding that indirect rays are ones that come at a slant and then bounce off other parts of

the earth, Heather is able to assimilate the diagram and new information into her conceptual

ecosystem without fundamentally changing her existing belief. There has been some change—

rays now bounce off the earth instead of some metaphorical mirror in space—but the

fundamental idea of bouncing light is preserved.

As the above example illustrates, we often preserve the fundamental ideas of our

conceptual ecosystem by allowing the more peripheral ideas to change. Watson and Konicek

(1990) use the metaphor of core beliefs and protective belt beliefs. Core beliefs are those that

occupy a more central position in the ecosystem. They provide a foundation for many other

beliefs. Consequently, a change in a core belief necessitates change in a whole host of other

beliefs. Protective belt beliefs exist more on the periphery of the ecosystem and can be changed

without causing massive restructuring. In fact, they are often changed to preserve the

fundamental structure of the ecosystem. Here is a historical example.

In ancient times, most of the world believed that the earth was the center of the universe

and the sun, moon, stars, and planets revolved around the earth. This belief held a central place

in the collective conceptual ecology for a number of reasons. First, it made sense given a whole

lot of other experiential knowledge. For instance, it certainly looks like the sun, moon, and stars

travel across the sky while the earth remains still. Also, people reasoned that if the earth were

moving we would feel the motion and be constantly subjugated to tremendous winds (hum, I

wonder if the ancient inhabitants of Wyoming did believe the earth was moving for just this

reason). Second, various religious perspectives viewed the earth as fixed in place. Third, the

earth being the center of the universe fit with other beliefs about the importance and centrality of

humans – humf! It is not I that revolves but the universe that revolves around me! (this reminds

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me of joke: how many teenagers does it take to change a light bulb? Just one, but it takes a long

time because he holds the light bulb and waits for the world to revolve around him.).

However, as far back as the ancient Greeks, observers of the heavens noted that the

celestial bodies did not always do what they were supposed to do; they did not conform to

Plato’s belief in uniform circular motion. For instance, it appeared the planets moved east

(relative to the stars), stopped, moved backward for a time, stopped again, and, finally, resumed

moving eastward. This backward progression, or retrograde motion, can easily be explained in

models that have the earth and planets revolving around the sun. But most Greeks were not

willing to give up their core belief in the earth being the center of the universe (who wants to

give up being the center of the universe?). Instead, they proposed that the planets revolved

around in little circles, or epicycles, as they completed a larger revolution around the earth (see

Figure 6.1). This new model explained the retrograde motion while maintaining uniform circular

motion and keeping the earth at the center of the universe where it belonged (clever, huh? ). But

it still needed some tweaking by Ptolemy to fully match the observations. He added some points

called deferents and equants and related the revolutions to these points. These tweaks made the

circular motions slightly less uniform and moved the center of the revolutions to a spot just off

the earth, but the model kept the earth fixed in place as the, more-or-less, center of the universe.

As a result, the Ptolemic model endured for over a thousand years (and you thought today’s ideas

took a long time to change!).

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Figure 6.1.

Eventually, more problems arose with the idea of the earth being the center of the

universe. Copernicus published a book arguing for a sun-centered universe and, in December of

1610 (that’s some 1,445 years after Ptolemy in case you’re wondering), Galileo provided solid

evidence to back up Copernicus. He observed that Venus went through all phases just like the

moon. Such an outcome made sense if Venus orbited the sun but not if Venus orbited the earth. It

seemed that the earth-centered view of the universe was in trouble. But not so fast, said Tycho

Brahe. He proposed that the sun and moon still revolved around a stationary earth, but the other

five known planets all revolved around the sun. So once again, the peripheral beliefs were

changed to preserve the core belief in the centrality of the earth’s location and it endured a bit

longer.

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You have to admit, the ancient astronomers were quite brilliant in coming up with ways

to preserve their core beliefs. We are just the same with respect to our own core ideas. We are

very clever at transforming peripheral beliefs and assimilating new information in ways that

preserve those ideas that are more central to our conceptual ecosystems. Of course the result is

that we are often remarkably intelligent about avoiding learning.

To summarize where we are in this extended comparison of learning to the introduction

of a new species to an ecosystem, we have discussed the first two possible outcomes. Outcome

one is the new species simply dies because it does not fit the environment. This is the equivalent

of non-learning. Outcome two is the new species survives but does not cause a fundamental

change to the ecosystem either because it (1) fits nicely and avoids conflicting with existing

species, (2) adapts over time to fit nicely while avoiding conflict, or (3) adapts and causes

peripheral changes to the ecosystem while the core aspects remain the same. Outcome two is

equivalent to assimilation. In both of these first two outcomes, fundamental change to the

existing conceptual ecosystem is avoided. This all changes when we consider the third outcome,

which Piaget termed accommodation and other researchers have termed conceptual change or

radical conceptual change. Accommodation is equivalent to the invasive species moving in and

wreaking havoc throughout the ecosystem. Invasive species are often a disaster in nature. But an

invasive species is exactly what we need for learning. As much as it kills me to say it, when it

comes to learning, we want the lake trout in Yellowstone Lake.

Imagine a pendulum swinging back and forth. Now, consider the following question.

Does the pendulum slow down at the end of the swing or just change direction? Suppose the

pendulum is constructed of a string and a sand-filled funnel. The bottom of the funnel is narrow

enough that a small but steady stream of sand can fall through. Now I put the pendulum in

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motion so the funnel drops sand between two rows of straws as it swings back and forth. Could

you figure out if your original prediction was correct?

This pendulum activity is typical of many of the science activities that were developed as

part of the math and science curriculum reforms of the 60s. In 1957, the Soviet Union

successfully launched Sputnik, thus beating the Americans in the race to space and creating

widespread fears about the quality of math and science education (thankfully Americans no

longer over-react in this way. Yeah, right). In response, mathematicians, scientists, and educators

scrambled to redesign math and science curriculums across the country. Piaget’s ideas were

influential in these reforms for a couple reasons. First, his theories had recently been

rediscovered as part of the ongoing cognitive revolution in psychology and they were very much

in vogue in certain academic circles. Second, Piaget’s emphasis on the value of exploration and

interaction with the environment resonated with mathematicians and scientists, who saw math

and science as being fundamentally about exploration and discovery. Consequently, numerous

scholars and educators went about the task of translating Piaget’s ideas into curricular activities.

One way in which this was done was to adapt Piaget’s research methods into classroom

activities.

Piaget and his colleagues developed a number of tasks that allowed them to explore

children’s thinking. Many of these “Piagetian tasks” involved a set of physical materials that

could be manipulated by the child or researcher and afforded learning through discovery. Such

tasks became models for the curriculum reforms. The pendulum activity is one such activity

modeled after Piagetian tasks. It provides an opportunity for kids to make predictions and test

them. Consequently, it often presents an opportunity to observe accommodation in action, that is,

the change and modification of existing beliefs.

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Duckworth (1987), a former student of Piaget who was influential in the 60s reforms,

provided an account of such accommodation. The context is a class of 10-year olds being shown

a film loop of a pendulum swinging back and forth dropping sand between two rows of straws.

After a few swings, the teacher paused the film and asked the kids to consider whether the

pendulum slowed down at the end of each swing or simply changed direction. Alec, who was a

thoughtful and articulate boy, confidently stated his belief that the pendulum simply changed

direction “because there is no reason for it [to slow down]” (p. 68). The other kids decided to

agree with Alec. The teacher then continued the film loop. As the kids watched, they began note

problems. Duckworth wrote,

One child said, “I don’t get it. Why isn’t it the same all along the straws, then? There was

silence again as they continued to watch. Another child said, “There’s more at the ends; it

piles up at the ends.” Other remarks came: “How come it isn’t higher in the middle—

because it goes back and forth over the middle?” “It probably goes fast over the middle—

fast over the middle and slows down at the ends.” “Besides, how can it stop without

slowing down?” (p. 68)

Gradually, the kids built confidence in challenging the original idea and finally one student

stated definitively, “It has to be slowing down at the ends” (p. 68). The other kids got on board

with this new opinion and. eventually, even Alec was convinced.

I frequently observe a similar type of accommodation in thinking when I bring children

into my education class and have them play with a balance (another Piagetian-type task). The

balance consists of a beam resting on a pivot with five pegs to each side of the pivot. It’s kind of

a pathetic balance because I made it myself but generally it works. On one occasion, I filmed my

seven-year old son Hayden playing with the balance. I placed two weights on peg one on the left

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side (this is the peg nearest to the center on the left side). Then I placed a weight on peg five (the

peg farthest from the center) on the right side while holding the balance steady. Next I asked

Hayden to predict what would happen. He predicted the balance would tip to the right. Kaya, his

four-year old sister, then jumped in and exclaimed that it would tip to the left. I let go of the

balance and it fell to the right (Kaya: “Hayden was right”). I moved the weight on the right from

the fifth peg to the third peg and again asked Hayden to predict what would happen. This time

Hayden predicted it would balance. When I let go, it again tipped to the right (Kaya: “Hayden

was wrong!”). I next asked Hayden to move the weight onto the peg where he thinks it will

balance. He moved it to the second peg and, when I let go, it balanced. I then added two more

weights to peg one on the left so there were a total of four weights on the peg (Kaya: “Oh, just

like I’m four! Just like I’m four!”) and asked Hayden to move the weight on the right to the peg

that will make it balance. Hayden sucked in his bottom lip, paused, counted four pegs over, and

then placed the weight on the fourth peg. When I let go of the balance, it again stayed level.

“How did you know it was going to balance?” I asked.

His eyes lighting up, Hayden responded, “Because last time there was two [touching peg

one on the left] and on the second peg, we put it [touching the second peg on the right], and it

balanced. And since there’s four now, I put it on the fourth peg.”

Both the pendulum and balance examples illustrate kids changing initial ideas and

constructing new ones. This is accommodation. However, accommodation is not always this

easy. For Alec and Hayden, the initial ideas were not deeply integrated and central to the

ecology. Alec had some initial ideas about pendulums and a belief that the pendulum changed

direction instead of stopping made sense, but overall, his “pendulum ecosystem” was likely not

that rich and expansive. Likewise, Hayden had some ideas about balances such as if the weight is

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farther over on one side it will probably tip to that side. But again, this was not a central idea

upon which a number of other ideas depended. In addition, both Alec and Hayden were able to

receive immediate, concrete feedback regarding their ideas. Consequently, when confronted with

conflicting information, it was not too difficult to change the ideas and construct new ones.1

Accommodation is more difficult when it involves a richer and more expansive

conceptual ecosystem comprised of fundamental ideas that have a deep history and significance.

Often, particular conditions are required for such accommodation to occur. Again, we can draw a

parallel back to the lake trout in Yellowstone Lake. As mentioned, most fish introduced into

Yellowstone Lake would simply die, thus leaving the Yellowstone cutthroat and surrounding

ecosystem unchanged. But the conditions were just right for the lake trout to become established

and cause chaos. The lake trout evolved in cold, deep lakes just like Yellowstone Lake. Thus, it

was adapted to survive in just this type of environment. Moreover, the Yellowstone cutthroat

evolved in a context free of other fish predators and had not developed defenses against such a

predator. The conditions were just right; the results were inevitable (I will now bang my head on

my desk).

So what are the perfect conditions needed for accommodation? Posner et al. (1982)

reasoned that we could learn a lot by studying the nature of scientific revolutions. For example,

when the scientific community finally rejected the earth-centered view of the universe (i.e., the

Copernican revolution), what conditions were present? Why did the community finally make the

change after some thousand years? Maybe those same general conditions need to be present for

us to make fundamental changes to our own conceptual ecosystems.

1 But even though these ideas were not core ideas, they cannot be considered protective belt ideas. That is, they were not ideas that were changed in order to preserve some more deeply held idea.

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Posner et al. settled on four conditions that they suggested were critical to both scientific

revolutions and individual conceptual change. The first of these conditions is that there needs to

be a fair bit of dissatisfaction with the existing theory. Generally, the scientific community is

reluctant to give up an existing theory for some new fangled one as long as the old one still

works. One of the reasons the earth-centered view of the universe persisted so long is simply that

it worked! It explained the observations and predicted the motions of the planets. But as Galileo

and others conducted new observations, the earth-centered models had to become more and more

cumbersome. Eventually, the scientific community became dissatisfied with these models and

open to the Copernican model. Likewise, we often need to experience some dissatisfaction with

our existing beliefs before we are open to changing them. Our Harvard graduate likely held onto

his belief that the seasons are caused by the earth getting closer to or farther away from the sun

because he never really saw a problem with the explanation. He was probably just told the

correct explanation and never asked to contemplate a question such as “How can it be summer in

North America at the same time it is winter in South America?” We often associate learning with

such positive mental states as clarity, understanding, peace, and harmony. But there is actually a

critical moment when such mental states as confusion, dissonance—or to use Piaget’s term—

perturbation are needed. We need that moment where we say to ourselves, “Wait a second. How

can it be winter in South America in the middle of July? Something is wrong here.” When my

kids complain about how confusing their homework is, I like to respond, “Great! That means you

are experiencing perturbation and are open to conceptual change!” Then my kids wander off and

complain about how non-useful it is to have a dad who’s an educational psychologist.

According to Posner et al., the second and third conditions critical to scientific

revolutions and individual conceptual change are that the new idea must be intelligible and

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plausible. That is, the idea has to make sense and be believable. For example, Einstein’s theory

of relativity didn’t cause an immediate revolution because many individuals couldn’t make sense

of it and some of the claims seemed totally implausible. In fact, an early version of his Ph.D.

dissertation contained the theory of relativity but was rejected, seemingly because the professors

found it too uncanny (Rigden, 2005). I can imagine his advisor reading over the thing and

thinking, what is Albert up to now? Has working at the patent office caused him to lose touch

with reality? What was so uncanny about the theory of relativity? Well, imagine that some time

in the future you board a spacecraft and go flying about the universe for a few years traveling

near the speed of light. When you return home, you find that your kids are now older than you!

This bizarre and seemingly unbelievable scenario is actually predicted by one of the fundamental

claims of Einstein’s theory: time is relative. It was not until some understanding of Einstein’s

theory developed and experiments confirmed some of the predictions that the scientific

community collectively said, “Well, maybe Einstein’s not so crazy after all.”

Similarly, for us to accept a new idea that fundamentally changes our existing conceptual

ecosystems, this new idea has to make sense and appear plausible. This may have been another

factor working against our Harvard graduate. As mentioned previously, kids are often taught that

the seasons are caused by direct and indirect light, but this explanation can be confusing (recall

Heather’s confusion about the nature of direct and indirect light) and it doesn’t seem very

plausible. How could the mere angle cause such dramatic differences in temperature?

The fourth condition identified by Posner et al. was that the new idea had to be fruitful in

the sense that it opened up new areas of research and discovery. Take Darwin’s theory of natural

selection as an example. The theory is like a virus that just keeps spreading and mutating. There

is no stopping it. Not only has the theory been incredibly fruitful in opening up hundreds of lines

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of new research in the field of biology, but it has fostered the creation of new research paradigms

in other fields as well. It has been used in the field of medicine to consider the effects of over-

prescribing antibiotics (Stearns, 1999), in the field of economics to theorize about growth and

change (Laurent & Nightingale, 2001), in the field of psychology to explain mating and

parenting behavior (Buss, 1994), and in the field of neurophysiology to understand brain

development (Changeux & Dehaene, 1989). Furthermore, you cannot read this book without

recognizing just how influential Darwin’s theory has been in the development of current learning

theories (well, I supposed you could, but that would be sad). Darwin’s theory of natural selection

is the epitome of a fruitful idea.

As applied to the individual, the condition of “fruitfulness” means that, for a new idea to

have a chance at integrating into the existing conceptual ecosystem, it needs to prove fruitful in

leading to personal insights and discoveries. Simply put, the idea should be meaningful and

useful. Unfortunately, this happens too infrequently and it is one of the things about education

that kills me. I like to go into schools and interview kids about their science learning. I am

mostly interested in whether the students do anything with their learning. Do they apply the ideas

they’ve learned in their everyday lives? Do they think about the world differently now that they

learned these ideas? Do they perceive events and objects through the lens of these new ideas?

Did the learning make any difference in their everyday experience? All too often, the answer is a

resounding “no.” Many of the kids don’t even think about the science ideas they learned except

when they’re in class or working on homework. The whole notion of a science idea being

personally meaningful and useful is completely foreign to them. Is it any wonder so many of

these ideas never get established in the conceptual ecosystem?

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But sometimes it does happen. Sometimes the new idea is useful. Sometimes it does

make sense and is plausible. Sometimes deficiencies with existing ideas are acknowledged. And

when this happens, when the conditions are just right, it is like the lake trout in Yellowstone

Lake. The idea moves in and transforms the conceptual ecosystem. Accommodation happens.

And when genuine, deep-level changes to the conceptual ecosystem occur, the consequences are

far reaching. Just as the lake trout affected everything from pelicans to grizzly bears, so the new

idea can impact many others. This point is well illustrated by another example of a scientific

revolution. When Sir Isaac Newton proposed his three laws of motion, he likely had little idea of

just how disruptive they would be. Prior to Newton, the world believed that some force or divine

intervention was needed to keep the heavenly object in motions. For instance, angels were

believed to push the planets across the sky. Newton showed that such movement could be

explained in terms of simple scientific principles and mathematical equations. This achievement

obviously had a profound effect on physics, but that is not all (I sound like one of those $9.99

commercials). Religious scholars began to rethink the nature of God. If God isn’t needed to keep

the universe running, maybe He isn’t as involved as we thought. Maybe He created the universe

and set it in motion like a giant clockwork and then stepped back to let it run on it’s own. Maybe

God isn’t directly involved in our own lives either. Maybe He created us and left us to run on our

own too. But wait, there’s more. Newton’s equations proposed that if you knew the initial

position and velocity of an object and could describe all the forces acting on it, then you could

determine any future position and velocity of the object. Theoretically then, if I could determine

the position, velocity, and acting forces for all the particles in your body, I could predict where

they would be in the future. The logical conclusion then is that your life must be pre-determined,

because I can predict where you will be in the future. The fact that it is beyond my capacity to

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determine the position, velocity, and acting forces for every particle in your body is irrelevant.

Simply the fact that, theoretically, I could, means your life must be pre-determined. Thus,

determinism in philosophy was another effect of Newton’s laws. And still, there is more.

Newton’s laws provided an unprecedented potential to explain and predict the world. The world

was no longer unknowable and incomprehensible. We could explain it without myths and

metaphysics. By explaining it, we could control it. This became the new worldview, the

scientific worldview. And since that day, the world has never been the same. Our collective

conceptual ecosystem was forever changed.

In the same way, new ideas can cause ripple effects that spread far and wide across our

personal conceptual ecosystems. They disrupt prior ideas and may even shatter beliefs that once

were core. In the chaos, new relationships between ideas are formed and fragments of knowledge

are pieced together into new understandings. Piaget believed that this process of disruption and

reconstruction was at the heart of learning. Not only was it necessary to develop more

sophisticated ideas (or schemas), but it was the key process by which we developed more

advanced levels of thought.

Finally, I wish to point out that assimilation and accommodation are really just two ends

of a single continuum. Nearly all learning involves both assimilation and accommodation to a

certain degree. That is, there is nearly always some assimilation of new ideas into the existing

conceptual ecosystem and some change to the ecosystem itself. Indeed, many learning episodes

may best be described as a balanced interplay between the two. The following example

illustrates the processes of assimilation and accommodation occurring together and how a

conceptual ecosystem functions as an evolving set of interconnected ideas.

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In the afore mentioned video of my kids’ ideas about the world, I asked my eleven-year-

old daughter, Sierra, to explain the cause of the seasons. She stated,

“Because the earth goes around the sun and it’s facing the same way. [Sierra makes a fist

with her right hand to represent the sun and holds up her left hand to represent the earth with her

palm facing her fist] so right now this would get direct sunlight [nods toward her palm.] [Sierra

then moves her hand around her fist without rotating it so that the back of her hand now faces her

fist] but then it doesn’t get exactly direct sunlight.”

“What do you mean by direct sunlight?” I ask.

“Where there’s like…[she holds her fist and hand up again with the palm facing her fist.]

[Pointing at the back of her hand] this isn’t getting direct sunlight because the sun’s here [makes

a fist again and puts it in front of her palm.] Like whatever side’s facing it is the side that gets the

direct sunlight and then whatever side is not facing it, it isn’t getting direct sunlight.”

At this point, I can see Sierra has constructed her own unique understanding of direct and

indirect light. Like many kids, she has used her existing conceptual ecosystem to come to a

logical conclusion about the meaning of direct and indirect light. She obviously has had many

experiences in which she faced the sun and felt the heat on her face and then turned away and

felt it cool. She has also felt the heat of the sun while being directly exposed to the sun’s rays and

felt the coolness of shade when she has moved behind a large tree. In addition, she has had many

experiences using the term direct in reference to some object moving straight to another object

without any interference or deviation in course, such as “Dad, can’t we go directly back to camp?

Do we have to fish every stream and lake?” (Yes, yes we do Sierra). Given these experiences, her

conception of direct and indirect light makes total sense to her.

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In the video, I decide to cause a bit of dissonance and see what happens. I begin to ask

her about the difference between the cause of the seasons and the cause of day and night. I am

thinking that as soon as I bring up the phenomenon of day of night, she will immediate say, “Oh

yeah. I was getting those mixed up.” But I am wrong. Sierra doesn’t see any conflict at all. So to

figure out what’s going on with her conceptual ecosystem, I grab a light to represent the sun and

an orange to represent the earth. Then I shine the light on the orange and say, “So here’s day. [I

spin the orange 180 degrees] here’s night. But you were saying the same thing is the seasons.”

Sierra grabs the orange out of my hand and moves it in a circle around the light. After

completing the circle, she explains, “When it’s going around it’s not staying there as long

because it is going around much slower. Because this is a day [spins the orange] and this is a

year [moves the orange around the light.] So it’s staying in one place a lot longer.”

So there is more to her theory than I initially thought. It is not just that she is confusing

the cause of the seasons with the cause of day of night. She has apparently reasoned out that if

the earth rotated around the sun without spinning, then some of the year, part of the earth would

be directly facing the sun and some of the year it won’t. She knows the earth does spin, but

figures there is still some orbital effect that will cause part of the earth to be directly facing the

sun for longer periods of time at certain times of the year. Kids incorrect ideas are actually quite

clever when you take the time to make sense of them. But clever or not, I of course could not

resist trying to cause more dissonance. So I took the orange, shined the light on it and asked, “Is

this day or is this summer?”

After a brief hesitation, Sierra responds, “That’s day. [Then she looks at me out of the

corner of her eyes and scrunches her nose as if to say, “What are you up to Dad?”]

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“Show me, what’s the difference between day in the summer and day in the winter?” I

ask.

“Well cuz…” Sierra looks up, purses her lips at me, then laughs and bites her lip.

“Um hum, now you’re stumped, huh?”

“No… [laughing] You’re annoying that way. You always ask annoying questions and

then try to make them as complex—last ten minutes long.”

She’s on to me! What’s interesting about this response (other than the fact that she feels

free to call her dad annoying) is that Sierra is still fairly convinced that her explanation of the

cause of the seasons all makes sense. She thinks I am just failing to understand her explanation

and trying to confuse her (she is now a teenager and perpetually thinks this). But there must be

some degree of dissatisfaction slowly developing, because Sierra starts playing around with an

additional explanation. She takes the orange in her left hand and holds it in front of the light.

Then she places her right index finger horizontally across the center of the orange, indicating that

her finger represents the equator. Next, she explains, “The sun isn’t going like this [she uses her

finger to draw a curving arc that goes up from the light to the top of the orange.] It is just going

like this [she draws a straight line with her finger from the light to the center of the orange]. It

hits where the equator is sticking out the most [she uses her finger to represent the equator again

and wiggles it away from the orange.] Like things along the equator stick out the most.”

A couple things may be going on here. It appears the idea of indirect light is starting to

evolve. My guess is that Sierra is recalling prior science lessons in which the teacher said

something about direct rays hitting the equator and indirect rays hitting the edges of the earth.

It’s as if this knowledge was lying dormant in the conceptual ecology like a frog that was

hibernating but now is emerging from the mud to become involved in the ecosystem. The classic

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idea of distance causing the seasons also seems to be reemerging. This is the grizzly bear

emerging from its den. But now, instead of the whole earth getting closer to the sun, the theory is

that some parts of the earth stick out and thus are warmer because they are closer. I certainly

assume this is what she is thinking and ask, “The equator sticks out the most so that is the

hottest?”

“Yeah,” Sierra responds confidently.

“So it gets cooler on the top and the bottom because they are farther away?”

“Yeah. So that is why Hawaii [pointing at the middle of the orange] is hotter than Canada

[pointing at the upper part of the orange].”

So now we have an evolved conceptual ecosystem where indirect rays curve before

hitting the earth and direct rays go straight to the earth. Places like the equator are hotter because

they receive these direct rays and they are closer to the sun. But this still doesn’t explain why we

have the different seasons. The idea about parts of the earth spending more time facing the sun at

certain times of the year seems to be on hold for the moment. So I ask my money question,

“How does it get so it is summer up here [pointing to the upper hemisphere of the orange] and

winter down here [pointing to the lower hemisphere?]”

I am sure Sierra is going to respond with the classic mutated form of the distance

explanation, which is this: the earth is tilted on its axis so as it rotates around the sun, sometimes

the northern hemisphere is tilted toward the sun so it is closer, hence summer. And sometimes it

is tilted away from the sun so it is farther away, hence winter. I can picture Sierra’s conceptual

ecosystem about to evolve in this way. I’m excited to watch it happen even though I know I’m

fostering another misconception. But Sierra has had enough of this nonsense. She grabs the

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orange and says, “Maybe it spins this way” as she laughs and makes the orange spin vertically

while corkscrewing it around the light.

Is this example assimilation or accommodation? It is both. Sierra is using her existing

beliefs, ideas, and experiences to make sense of the world and new information is transformed

and assimilated into this conceptual ecosystem. But even though this information has been

transformed or interpreted through the lens of her existing beliefs, it still carries a bit of

dissonance. This dissonance causes some restructuring in the ecosystem. Dormant ideas are

awakened and new connections are made. The change is not an immediate and radical

restructuring—it is not the lake trout in Yellowstone lake—but it is a change. A small evolution

of the conceptual ecosystem has taken place. Over time, as more information is encountered, it

will continue to evolve, often in unpredictable ways.

Such is learning from a constructivist perspective. It is not a matter of adding another

brick to the wall or node to the network. It is a matter of how new ideas are interpreted and made

sense of in terms of existing ideas. It is a matter of how existing ideas are transformed and

restructured in light of the new ideas. It is a matter of a living, evolving conceptual ecosystem.

Where the Metaphor Breaks Down

The conceptual ecosystem metaphor suggests that the mind is comprised of competing

ideas. Those ideas that best help us explain and make sense of the world in a consistent way, are

the most “fit” ideas and most likely to become integral parts of our conceptual ecologies. But are

we really so rational? Consider the following example adapted from a case study recorded by

Demastes, Good, and Peebles (1995). Tyler is a senior in high school taking Biology II. She

comes from a religious background and, more or less, believes in the Biblical account of the

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creation in a literal way. That is, she generally believes that God created Adam and Eve and all

the creatures of the earth a relatively short time ago. In her biology class, she encounters

scientific theories about evolution and the age of the earth. She must have encountered these

theories before, but apparently never dealt with them in a serious way. This time it is different.

As the instruction progresses, Tyler comes to modify her belief about the creation and age of the

earth. She accepts that the earth is much older than she previously thought and adopts a belief

that God created the creatures of the earth over a long period of time by guiding the evolutionary

process. Now here is the interesting part. Tyler’s belief change has very little to do with the

theories providing a more sensible account of the scientific data. It’s not even clear whether she

finds the theories intelligible, plausible, and fruitful. So why would Tyler make such a change to

what is presumably a core belief? The answer is dinosaurs. Dinosaurs are cool. Tyler likes

dinosaurs. Prior to the instruction, she had not realized there was a conflict between believing in

dinosaurs and believing in the recent creation of the earth. So, when the conflict arose, she

accepted the idea of an older earth and evolution so she could keep believing in dinosaurs. As

Demastes et al. put it, “For Tyler the world was old not because of an array of supporting

evidence, but because it had to be old in order for dinosaurs to have existed” (p. 660). Tyler isn’t

changing her beliefs based strictly on the degree to which competing ideas best explain the

world. Her belief change is motivated primarily by her affection for dinosaurs.

Many educational theorists now believe that emotions and motivation play a central role

in either facilitating or inhibiting change in our ideas. Think about the political conversations you

have had with friends and enemies. Can we explain political beliefs purely in terms of rational

sense making? I think not! We can still think about the mind as an ecosystem, but we need to

think about it as a conceptual and emotional ecosystem. Or, if you prefer, an ecosystem

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comprised of emotional concepts. Emotions play a particularly important role in determining our

core beliefs. Previously, I implied that our core beliefs are our fundamental ways of making

sense of the world. This is true, but it is an oversimplification. Broad explanatory power is but

one characteristic of core beliefs. A second characteristic is emotional attachment. For many of

us, our most core beliefs are those that could be described as religious and cultural beliefs. Why

are these beliefs so core? To a large degree, it is because these beliefs connect to our identity—

our sense of this is who I am and this is the group of people I belong too. Identity is more

emotional than rational. It is a felt purpose, a felt connection.

If we reflect back to the O. J. Simpson trial, does this mean that the judgments of

innocence or guilt made by different groups really were just reflections of bias after all? No, not

at all. But we do need to recognize that both experience and identity played vital roles in the

development of the respective worldviews about policeman. We also need to recognize that these

worldviews are comprised of emotional concepts. Perhaps the judgments can best be explained

as individuals making sense of the evidence through their worldviews while recognizing that

such individuals are motivated to preserve their worldviews and these worldviews are not

separable from one’s sense of identity.

Implications

Prior knowledge is a double-edged sword. In the Behaviorist and Cognitive

perspectives, prior knowledge was seen as almost universally beneficial. In the Behaviorist

metaphor, prior knowledge in the form of associations constituted the bricks upon which new

bricks can be added. In the Cognitive metaphors, prior knowledge in the form of ideas, facts, and

experiences constituted the network to which new information could be attached and secured.

But in the conceptual ecosystem metaphor, the relationship between prior knowledge and

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learning is more complex. Prior knowledge both fosters and hinders learning. It is a double-

edged sword. It fosters learning in the sense that no learning is possible without prior knowledge.

Just as no organism can survive apart from an ecosystem, so no knowledge can exist apart from

an existing conceptual ecosystem. However, this conceptual ecosystem may resist the

introduction of new ideas that threaten its stability. If we go back the brick metaphor, we could

say that the building process does not always proceed smoothly. Sometimes we have to tear out

and reconstruct the foundation. The latter takes a lot of work, so we often hold onto our core

ideas (i.e., we keep our existing foundation) and reject or transform information that threatens

these ideas.

We need time to work with our ideas. This implication flows from the first one.

Because we have prior ideas that are deeply embedded in a conceptual ecosystem, they are not

easy to give up and they don’t just go away—although they might hibernate for a time. If we

truly want to change an existing conceptual ecology then we need to work with these ideas in a

meaningful way. Specifically, we need an opportunity to test them and discover their limits. For

individuals to overcome a belief that the seasons are caused by distance from the sun, they need

to explore the circumstances in enough depth to understand why a distance explanation is

problematic. Simply telling someone that the seasons are not caused by distance from the sun is

generally ineffective over the long term.

We also need time to work with new ideas in order for these ideas to survive and take

root in the conceptual ecosystem. Again, simply telling someone that the seasons are caused by

direct and indirect light is likely to be ineffective. Individuals need time to make sense of this

idea and play around with it. They need to explore how this idea could explain different

phenomena and maybe do their own experiments or investigations of direct and indirect light.

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When individuals learn new concepts in a typical school way, which is to memorize terms and

definitions, they keep these ideas on the periphery of the conceptual ecosystem and don’t give

them much opportunity to become integrated. By analogy, it is as if the lake trout had been

planted in a netted off section of Yellowstone lake, where they might survive peripherally but

could not fundamentally alter the ecosystem (if only this was the case).

Don’t bend the map. I recently read a book by Laurence Gonzales (2003) titled Deep

Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why. If you like reading about dramatic survival (and non-

survival) stories mixed with a scientific analysis of what’s going on, this is the book for you. In

one chapter, Gonzales writes about what happens when individuals get lost in the wilderness. He

describes being lost as the psychological phenomenon of your mental map not matching up with

your physical surroundings. You have a mental image of where such things as the trail, the lake,

the valley, or the campsite should be. But they aren’t there. This disconnect is terribly

distressing. To reduce the anxiety, we try to make the physical world fit our mental map by

tweaking reality. Edward Cornell, a psychologist quoted by Gonzalez puts it this way,

“Whenever you start looking at your map and saying something like, ‘Well, that lake could have

dried up,’ or ‘That boulder could have moved,’ a red light should go off. You’re trying to make

reality conform to your expectations rather than seeing what’s there. In the sport of orienteering,

they call that ‘bending the map’ ” (p. 163-164).

Bending the map is exactly what we do when we try to assimilate conflicting new ideas

into our existing conceptual ecosystem. Bending the map is what ancient astronomers did when

they created epicycles, deferents, and equants to keep the earth at the center of the universe.

Bending the map is what the elementary kids did when they concluded that air got it, there

wasn’t enough time, and the thermometer was broken to maintain their belief that warm clothes

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produce heat. Bending the map is what we do when we discredit any information or arguments

that conflict with our existing political beliefs.

Lord, Ross, and Lepper (1979) provided a remarkable illustration of this point in a study

of attitudes about capital punishment. They recruited 24 individuals in favor of capital

punishment and 24 individuals against it to participate in the study. The participants were given

two fictional research studies to read. One study provided evidence supporting the argument that

capital punishment deters murder. The other study provided evidence undermining this

argument. You might think that studying evidence on both sides of the issue would make the

participants more moderate in their opinions or at least more understanding of the other

viewpoint. You might think this, but you would be wrong. The participants actually became

more polarized than they were before the study! Why? Because they bent the map. They

discredited the evidence that conflicted with their initial belief by focusing on flaws in the

research. Simultaneously, they ignored the same flaws in research that supported their initial

belief. They bent reality to make it fit their expectations and desires (now you know why we

become so uber-confident of our political beliefs and can, in good conscience, believe that

anyone with a differing opinion is a supreme idiot).

In Deep Survival, Gonzalez explains that the survivors, those who get lost and are able to

find their way back again, are those who realize they have to reconstruct their mental map. They

admit that reality does not match their existing map and they start to create a fresh one based on

what they can see. But, as someone who has spent his fair share of time being lost in the

wilderness, I can testify that this is hard to do. It is hard to admit that you are truly lost, that your

mental map is truly out of synch with reality. It is so much easier to say, “That canyon probably

only looks like it runs to the south. I’m sure if we head down the canyon it will bend back to the

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east and intersect with the trail.” Likewise, it is so much easier to modify new ideas so they fit

our existing beliefs. It is so much easier to discredit or ignore conflicting information. But if you

want to advance your conceptual ecosystem, this is exactly what you have to avoid. You have to

face reality. Even if it’s painful, uncomfortable, and confusing, you have to acknowledge the

disconnect and begin reconstructing your conceptual ecosystem. You can never remove all your

biases and preconceived notions, but you can ask yourself, “Am I bending the map? Am I seeing

reality or am I seeing what I want to see? Am I understanding this as it really is or am I trying to

force my own naïve understanding on it?” Asking these questions may just save you from

remaining lost in the wilderness of misunderstanding.

Being lost (and found) is a good thing. Let me explain. Piaget was primarily interested

in figuring out how we get smart. How do we learn to think abstractly? How do we learn to think

critically? This process of developing more advanced ways of thinking is called cognitive

development and Piaget identified various stages of cognitive development. Further, he proposed

that the process of equilibration is the key to cognitive development and advancing from one

stage to the next. What is this equilibration? Basically, it involves getting lost and finding your

way back again.

On most occasions, our existing ideas for making sense of the world match up with the

information we are processing about the world. Our mental map matches reality (at least as we

perceive it). But then things happen to disrupt the harmony between our ideas and the world. We

encounter conflicting information. We discover a logical flaw. Suddenly, there is a disturbing

disconnect between our mental map and reality. We are lost. Now we have a choice. We can

either bend the map or we can reconstruct our personal mental map. If we choose the latter and

reconstruct our conceptual ecosystem to account for the new information or new idea, then we

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have chosen the right path. We have restored an equilibrium with the environment by

reconstructing our existing beliefs. Piaget proposed that by engaging in this process over and

over, we advance cognitively. We learn to think.

Do not underestimate the impact of a powerful idea. This is perhaps the most

intriguing implication of the mind as conceptual ecosystem metaphor. Some organisms have a

unique potential to survive and thrive in new environments. These are the creatures and plants

that we disdainfully refer to as invasive species. As explained previously, the lake trout had a

unique potential to survive and thrive in Yellowstone Lake. However, some organisms have an

even broader capacity to survive in new environments and wreak havoc throughout the

ecosystem, like the zebra mussel, the brown rat, or—get this—the European rabbit. Yes, the cute,

innocent looking rabbit is one of the most destructive species on earth. It has been introduced in

countries across the globe and has had a massive impact on local environments. The greatest

impact has been in Australia.

Legend has it that in 1859, Thomas Austin released 24 European rabbits into the wild in

Australia. Austin was an avid hunter from England and wanted to bring the sport of rabbit

hunting with him to Australia. I’m guessing Austin was a bad shot, because these 24 rabbits soon

created a rabbit epidemic that spread across the country. These rabbits caused chaos in the

ecosystems by destroying local vegetation, causing soil erosion, and becoming food for other

non-native species such as foxes and feral cats. In fact, rabbits are the prime culprits in the

extinction of nearly an eighth of the mammals in Australia! Maybe the creators of Monty Python

and Holy Grail were right to portray the fuzzy little rabbit as a deadly beast.

Now, carry this analogy over to ideas. Are some ideas like the rabbit? Do they have a

unique potential to take root in our conceptual ecologies and cause massive change? One of my

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professors in graduate school, Dick Prawat, liked to talk about ideas in this way. He argued that,

as educators, we often underestimated the potential of powerful ideas. His point was that we

focus on a lot on how to teach content: what strategies to use, how to accommodate individual

differences, and so on. But we neglect to deeply consider what content we teach. That is, we do

not spend equivalent effort contemplating what the most powerful ideas are within a particular

topic. Or as my professor put it, we don’t put enough effort into figuring out which ideas “have

legs.” He liked to talk about ideas as little critters and he argued that some of these critters have

legs and can run off in a number of directions. Once the mind grasps hold of one these ideas, it is

almost as if the idea runs on its own and finds new applications, reveals new insights, and creates

new discoveries. He liked to quote the great American educator John Dewey (1986/1933) who

wrote, “There is no mistake more common in schools than ignoring the self-propelling power of

an idea. Once it is aroused, an alert mind fairly races along with it. Of itself it carries the student

into new fields; it branches out into new ideas as a plant sends forth new shoots” (p. 335).

Are some ideas like this? Do some ideas have much greater potential for transforming our

conceptual ecosystems than others? If so, what is the nature of such ideas? What makes them so

compelling? I used to sit around and discuss these questions with Dr. Prawat and a group of other

graduate students and professors. We never came to clear conclusions but we spent a lot of time

discussing ideas. On one occasion, Dr. Prawat shared the story of how he got his teenage son

hooked on a powerful idea. He was watching a TV show about Gandhi, when his son walked by.

He tried to get his son to sit down and watch with him, but his son, being the teenager that he

was, was not so inclined. As his son was walking away, Dr. Prawat called out, “This man

brought Churchill to his knees.” His son stopped and looked at the skinny man in sparse Indian

garb displayed on the screen. Then Dr. Prawat sprung the big idea: moral authority is more

64

powerful than military authority. His son was hooked and this idea became an invasive species.

Many discussions followed about situations where moral authority trumped military authority or

other sources of physical might. Such discussions expanded to considerations of foreign strategy

(e.g., Can a country succeed militarily only to lose power by losing moral authority?) and such

issues as what moral authority means in terms of personal relationships and whether it is really

more influential than other forms of power such as wealth and status. The idea had legs. But

why? What is it about this idea that makes it so powerful? I can’t fully answer that question. All I

can say is that I think my professor was right. Some ideas are more compelling and powerful

than others. We should spend more time trying to figure out what the truly compelling ideas are

within a topic area and how we can get individuals hooked on these ideas.

65

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