The Stalagmite Effect

Introduction Drip...drip...drop by drop...the stalagmite grows steady from the cave floor. Over years, decades and centuries, the constant drops of mineral rich water build the glorious crystal structures that we see today. Their growth is not dramatic, not caused by volcanic activity or earthquakes, and not always visible. Their growth is slow, steady, and unrelenting. The natural beauty and wonder of these glorious formations provide the central analogy for this book. "The Stalagmite Effect" is about how slow, steady growth—like a stalagmite—has shaped my life, both in my work as a Music Teacher and in my personal journey, building tenacity, self-improvement, and a purpose-driven life, and, most importantly, by helping others add their own layers of growth and brilliance. 'Stalactites hold on tight, stalagmites, they just might (reach the ceiling).' This simple rhyme was how I learned to distinguish between these fascinating cave formations as a child. Little did I know that these natural wonders would one day serve as the perfect metaphor for my teaching philosophy and life journey. As a child with a fascination for rocks and minerals, I collected everything from quartz crystals to fool's gold. Years later, I would stand in awe before nature's most patient sculptors—stalagmites and stalactites—in some magnificent cave systems. I've been in three cave systems with glorious stalagmites and stalactites—two with my husband and then-young sons, and one with a choir on tour. The two with my family filled us all with awe and wonder. We had a guide for a tour of the Capricorn Caves in Central Queensland, and we were lucky enough to be there at the time of year when a strong beam of direct sunshine came in through the cave ceiling. My youngest son Scott gave the guide his entry ticket to have a hole burnt into it as it was held in the beam of light. What a magic trick in a magic place. The Jenolan Caves in New South Wales—bigger and just as magical—are thought to be 430 million years old. I have some old, square photos of Tom and Scott in those caves, but I so wish digital images had been in use then so I'd have more true-colour images of my family—and the glorious cave formations. The cave visit with the choir to the Chillagoe Caves was not only amazing for the cave structures themselves, it had an added musical magic—I'll tell you about that later. For years, I often turned to a very different analogy—Chinese water torture—to explain the slow, relentless pressure I sometimes felt in my personal and professional life. The image of a victim restrained, enduring the cold, irregular drip of water on their forehead, is a powerful and disturbing one. The drips' unpredictability and the anticipation of the next drop can lead to sleeplessness, anxiety, and, eventually, mental distress. It's relentless and eroding, a symbol of slow wear. Now, please don't be shocked at this—it's not where your imagination might first take you—but often, I compared teaching to Chinese water torture. This comparison wasn't about causing harm or wearing away, but about the constant, tenacious nature of teaching. As a Music Teacher, I see hundreds of children, in class groups for half an hour, once a week. Even those of you reading this book who haven't studied child development know that the attention span of children is not incredibly long. When they're in a large group for a short amount of time only once a week, you can't really count on a great deal of focus from any individual child. That, to me, is part of the art of teaching: how to keep these students interested, engaged and learning—having fun while still progressing towards the goals of music literacy and understanding. This is where the Chinese water torture analogy came in. I imagined a tiny little drip of content or understanding or insight landing on an individual at unspecified times, building their knowledge. Chinese water torture is like that, so I thought the analogy quite apt. I even used it several times as I presented professional development sessions to other Music Teachers. It often elicited a giggle and agreement. Sometimes, though, I'd hear a gasp of horror before I could explain the analogy. But I realised this analogy is way too negative. Missing the mark, really. Although accurate in the 'amount' and 'timing' elements, the implication of wearing down—when, in truth, what I aim for as an educator is building up—meant I needed to abandon even thinking about my work this way. Then came my epiphany. Stalagmites. Stalagmites are formed by a slow and steady drip—drip, drip, drip—of mineral-rich water. Rainwater seeps through cracks in limestone rock, dissolving calcium carbonate as it flows. When this mineral-laden water reaches the floor of a cave, a tiny crystal of calcium carbonate is left behind as the water evaporates. Over thousands or even millions of years, countless drops contribute their mineral cargo to create a stalagmite. It is an awe-inspiring process, one of patience and persistence, where each tiny addition builds toward something magnificent. Now that is teaching! I see myself not as a force wearing something down, but as a contributor to the growth process—the building up of our precious students. Each day, I aim to provide skills, ideas, perspectives, and experiences to young people. My goal is to help them grow into wonderful citizens of the world—a lofty aim, perhaps, but isn't that the essence of education? It's a huge responsibility, and like the stalagmite, it requires consistent, deliberate effort.