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Reflective Practice:International andMultidisciplinary PerspectivesPublication details, including instructions for authorsand subscription information:http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/crep20

The PhD Student as an AdultLearner: Using reflectivepractice to find and speak in herown voiceHelen Johnson aa Froebel College, University of Surrey Roehampton,Roehampton Lane, London, SW15 5PJ, UKPublished online: 18 Aug 2010.

To cite this article: Helen Johnson (2001) The PhD Student as an Adult Learner: Usingreflective practice to find and speak in her own voice, Reflective Practice: Internationaland Multidisciplinary Perspectives, 2:1, 53-63, DOI: 10.1080/14623940120035523

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Re¯ ective Practice, Vol. 2, No. 1, 2001

The PhD Student as an Adult Learner:using re¯ ective practice to ® nd andspeak in her own voiceHELEN JOHNSONUniversity of Surrey Roehampton, Froebel College, Roehampton Lane, London

SW15 5PJ, UK; e-mail: H.Johnson@roehampton.ac.uk

ABSTRACT Being a PhD student requires a discipline and adherence to an academic

discourse. (The latter is especially true of the social sciences.) This discourse requires a

researcher to consider and present her work in an omniscient and impersonal tone. But what

happensÐ and what should be the PhD student’ s responseÐ when an autobiographical

episode, involving a number of personal crises entirely beyond her controlÐ impinge on her

work to such an extent that thinking and writing in this omniscient voice becomes

impossible, to the point that it forces her from her studies? This individual case study

explores the relevance and usefulness of re¯ ection in action and re¯ ection on action to

understand the situation, contain itÐ and to devise a way forward.

Understanding Re¯ ective Practice

The PhD carries a considerable and varied agenda (Phillips & Pugh, 2000). It canbe seen in many ways: as the pursuit of research that contributes to humanknowledge; as another academic quali® cation to be conquered in order that the `fullset’ can be acquired; as the starting point in a formal academic career and/or as acareer-enhancing strategy; as an acknowledgement of `cleverness’ and, more pro-foundly, as a validation of the self. It is the latter that can be linked naturally, withanother aspect of the PhD that is sometimes not stressed, as a re¯ ective learning

experience.The website of Curtin University, Australia (2000) asks the pertinent question

about re¯ ective learning and practice: `Is it just what people do in the shower?’ Allof us think about what has happened today to reach some conclusion about how thatexperience should affect or in¯ uence what we do and how we do it in the future.However, its advocates would claim that re¯ ective practice is more than thatinformal consideration of how we have dealt with today’s events or crises orhappenings. Re¯ ective practice is the integration of thought and action withre¯ ection’ (Imel, 1989). Such integration causes there to be something going on thatis more rigorous and demanding than a `relaxed mulling over’ in warm water.

ISSN 1462-3943 print; ISSN 1470-1103 online/01/010053-11 Ó 2001 Taylor & Francis Ltd

DOI: 10.1080/14623940120035523

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54 H. Johnson

Evaluation and decision-making is to be informed, logical and systematic. Accordingto Taggart and Wilson (1998, p. 2) re¯ ective thinking can be grouped:

according to the mode of thinking or the process an individual progressesthrough to reach a level of re¯ ection that complements both the context ofthe situation and the background the individual brings to the episode.

While there is a debate about whether a hierarchy of thinking exists, and if so, theexact delineation of that strati® cation, there is a general agreement (Taggart &Wilson, 1998) `on three modes or levels of re¯ ective thinking: technical, contextualand dialectical’ . Van Manen (1977) talks of a technical rationality that seeks pre-cedence and information from past experiences that concentrates on the actuality ofbehaviour, content and skill. Essentially, the technical is doing. He goes on to see thesecond level of re¯ ection in terms of the context. In a sense, the relatively unproblem-atic nature of the technical gives way to the problems and issues arising from beliefand value systems of the practitioner or protagonist. Here, as Taggart and Wilson(1998) point out, there is a necessity to make comparisons and choices, and in this,decision-making will be based on knowledge and value commitments, in whichprofessional (and perhaps, personal) principles are validated. Van Manen’ s (1977)third level of re¯ ectivity, critically addresses issues dialectically, in which ethical orsocio-political or moral issues are confronted and examined. At this level, accordingto Taggart and Wilson (1998, p. 5), practitioners consider issues of this kind, butany personal bias is eliminated as `the ability to make defensible choices and view anevent with open-mindedness is also indicative of re¯ ecting at a dialectical level’ .Even if this model is used cautiously, it is clear that at three levels or certainly allthree modes of thinking are present in any PhD project. Technical thinking is to thefore in the operationalisation of the research through the employment of an appro-priate methodology. The contextual is present in the mindset of the researcherthrough which the project and its ® ndings (and the in¯ uence of the particularsituation or set of circumstances) will be viewed; and the dialectical in the detachedand disinterested assessment of the process and its outcomes.

One of the most in¯ uential writers in this area is SchoÈ n (1983, 1988), who hasdrawn on `an historical foundation in a tradition of learning supported by Dewey,Lewin and Piaget’ (Imel, 1989). With these origins, it is evident that re¯ ectivepractice and its thinking is constructivist. In this, as Brooks and Brooks (1993) (asadapted by Taggart and Wilson, 1998, p. 9), would say:

¼ all knowledge is constructed and invented by the learner; involves alllearners in active manipulations of meanings, numbers and patterns;believes learning is nonlinear; provides students with tools of empower-ment: concepts, heuristic procedures, self-motivation and re¯ ection; andbelieves learning occurs most effectively through guided discovery, mean-ingful application, and problem solving.

Given the traditional approach to the PhD project in this country, in which theresearcher or learner, though supported, is very much left alone to set the task andcomplete it, the brief review of the constructivist approach has obvious parallels. If

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The PhD Student as an Adult Learner 55

the PhD project would seem to sit totally under a constructivist umbrella, it is alsoevident that Knowles’ work (1990) on a theory of adult learning, an andragogy,shares the same ground. In his view, the adult learner, in whatever guise, has to need

to know. All learning engaged in by adultsÐ not just the blue ribbon of thePhDÐ will be assessed in terms of its `bene® ts, consequences, and risks’ . Thisassessment will undertaken before `involvement in the learning situation’ . Knowlesstressed that it was the `self-concept and intellectual responsibility’ of adults aslearners that supported and was entirely appropriate for `self-directed learningsituations’ . However, Knowles goes on to emphasise that experiential learning basedon `the adult learner’ s past experiences is essential’ . So, if in its widest form, in thelay view mentioned by Phillips and Pugh (2000, p. 41), that research is ® nding outsomething you don’t know’, is `doing a PhD’ as a self-declared adult learnerincompatible? How can something new and unknown be found if the starting pointsof this learning are things experienced in the past? Clearly, it is here that SchoÈ n’ s(1988) ideas about re¯ ective practice can come fully into play.

According to SchoÈ n, there are two types of re¯ ection. Firstly, there is re¯ ection onaction, in which the practitioner re¯ ects following action or in an interruption); andsecondly, there is re¯ ection in action that is engaged in during the event or situation.(In a similar vein, Kottkamp (1990) uses the terms `of¯ ine’ and `online’ .) Bothforms of re¯ ection would seem to be a process entirely appropriate for the PhDprocess. But, looking more closely, what of re¯ ection on action: how long in the pastshould be the experiences under consideration and can they be drawn from thehinterland far beyond the immediate core of the PhD process? Here, lie issues ofconsideration, re¯ ection and discarding. It can be time-consuming, confusing andmisleading. It can result in a seeming lack of focus within a template that demandssuch a narrowing down because of its `scienti® c’ format, and in order that the PhDcan be completed. It can also lead to a process that allows the practitioner througha body of knowledge, distilled into a professional and personal philosophy, derivedfrom a wide view of their life experience. Though dif® cult to manage because of therange and depth of the available sources, this can only enrich the process. So, for theadult learner engaged in the PhD process, the most meaningful question can be toask why this research question has been chosen rather than that. There are going tobe many answers, mainly of which are likely to be logical, rational and pragmatic. Ata deeper and more personal level, it is suggested that the adult learner could also berevisiting, within the PhD process, some issues that he or she may have experiencedin a situation similar to the context in which the PhD study is set. Or, perhaps, moreinterestingly, in terms of personal development, he or she is revisiting a set of issuesthat ® rst arose in a context that is entirely dissimilar to that being explored in thedetachment and self-consciousness of the PhD process.

Managing Re¯ ective Practice

Given these considerations, how is this re¯ ection to be managed? On a general level,Roth (1989) has offered several strategies for re¯ ective practice. Not surprisingly, herecommends questioning. So, here is another context, in which we are to go beyond

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56 H. Johnson

the taken for grantedness’ of `everyday life’ that Berger & Berger (1972) haveexplained in their discussion of the sociology of Alfred Schutz. These questions areto ask about the what and why of events and situations. In the answers, alternativesare to be compared and contrastedÐ and in all this, the underlying theoreticalframework and rationale are to be sought.

Posner (1996) states that `more learning is derived from re¯ ecting on an experi-ence than is derived from the experience itself’ . Speci® c tools can be used in thisre¯ ective practice. Writing it down in the form of, say, re¯ ective journal keeping helpsturn re¯ ection into a more coherent and revisitable educational experience. Oberg (asnoted in Clift et al., 1990) argues that such journal keeping becomes a moregenuinely and useful educational experience when the journal is opened up toanother or others, allowing a discussion or dialogue to evolve from the entries.Another tool that is similar is autobiographical sketches (Olson, 1988). These are anarrative strategy that practitioners can use to explore the background the individ-ual brings to the episode’ (to requote Taggart & Wilson, 1998, p. 2) and their ownreceived wisdom or self-developed theories about learning. Importantly, Taggart &Wilson (1998, p. 164) state that:

The perspective of education brought out in the practitioner’ s story line isbased on beliefs, intentions, interpretations, and interactions of a lifetime

(this writer’s italics). An autobiographical frame of reference assists practi-tioners in making sense of current experiences and responding rationally tostimuli within those experiences.

Many additional advantages can be claimed for that autobiographical narrative asdevice to prompt and encourage re¯ ection and learning. Signi® cantly for this study,Taggart and Wilson (1998, p. 164) assert, on a general level, that the writing ofnarratives can offer `reclamation, emancipation and empowerment ¼ self-under-standing, personal growth and professional development’ . More speci® cally, theyargue that such a device can speci® cally also enhance `qualitative research byopening new avenues of thought’ .

The re¯ ective journal and autobiographical narratives, as developmental devices,can be expressed in any manner that is useful to the adult learner. But, instead ofbeing an exercise that shadows the formal academic process of the PhD, what if thelessons learnt are to be used in the PhD itself? How should they be expressed there?Are they clearly separate, in a different, more personal and relaxed tone to theformality of the mainstream of the PhD itself? Or can they be incorporated in thewriting up of the thesis? Phillips and Pugh (2000, p. 59) remind us of Olson’ sremark that writing is `the means of discovery of new knowledge’ . Richardson (1994,p. 516) takes up this point:

In the spirit of affectionate toward qualitative research, I consider writingas a method of inquiry, a way of funding out about yourself and your topic.Although, we usually think about writing as a mode of `telling’ about thesocial world, writing up is not just a mopping-up activity at the end of theresearch project. Writing is also a way of `knowing’ Ð a method of discovery

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The PhD Student as an Adult Learner 57

and analysis. By writing in different ways, we discover new aspects of ourtopic and our relationship to it. Form and content are inseparable.

Phillips and Pugh (2000, p. 59) temper this view by reminding us of typical remarksof academics that `good writing can’t cure bad thought’ . However, they go on tonote that:

Several eminent psychologists interviewed by Cohen (1977) said that theonly time they think is when they write and Murray (1978) reports that thisis also true of poets and authors. He suggests it may be true of all writing.

It has been argued that a meaningful learning experience for an adult, whether aformal exercise such as a PhD or an exercise in re¯ ective practice, is likely to beunderpinned by a constructivist perspective. This resonates with the qualitativeapproach to research in which the researcher, as Richardson, notes is the `instru-ment’ that collects data rather than the impersonal questionnaire, the pivotal tool inmost positivist studies. It is the researcher him or herself, who must be trained andpractised in the research situation to `observe, listen, question and participate’(Richardson, 1994, p. 517). However, as we have seen, the writing up of anyconsequent research is treated as almost a mechanical activity, a necessary butsecondary task to complete the overall PhD projectÐ rather than, as Olson (1998)and Richardson (1994), were quoted earlier as a `method of discovery’ in itself thatdevelops the `creativity and sensibilities’ of the researcher.

Richardson (1994, p. 517) goes on to note the irony by which qualitative re-searchers, with their recognition of the researcher as `the instrument’ adopt a writingstyle that is `homogenised through professional socialisation’ and so suppresses`individual voices’ . The actual research project itself in its approach and design willestablish and acknowledge its qualitative perspective that places an emphasis oninternal validity rather than external. Thus, any claims of generalisability will beunlikely. But nevertheless, the qualitative researcher through socialisation into theprevailing academic discourse (Fairclough, 1992) is encouraged to take on the`omniscient voice of science, the view from everywhere’ . This, according to Richard-son, both diminishes the researcher’ s own sense of self and makes his or her textsboring to readÐ and so a chance of a dialogue or engagement between the writer andreader is minimised. Thus, though the PhD as a project of academic excellence andre¯ ective practice can only enhance the researcher both personally and in pro-fessional terms, the dominance of the prevailing discourse about appropriate writingstyle demands that any evidence of that growth and individuality be excluded fromthe ® nal text.

But as Richardson goes on to point out, why should this grand narrative aboutscience from which this disembodied, all-knowing writing voice is inherited, remainunchallenged in the postmodernist world? If the grand narratives, the unchallenge-able stories, full of certainties, that have the authority to explain everything havecollapsed, postmodernism inherently encourages new methods of both inquiry andwriting, such as the self-interviewing devices such as re¯ ective journals and autobio-graphical narratives, predicated on the acceptance that no method or style has a

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58 H. Johnson

privileged status. Is the God-like `omniscient voice’ of science now really appropriatefor both the research approach and the times we live in? There is a clear case for amore human position that `allows us to know ª somethingº without claiming to knoweverything’ (Richardson, 1994, p. 518), in which the `situational limitations of theknower’ are accepted, and the individuality of the writer, both personally andprofessionally, can be expressed. Richardson (1994, p. 518) puts it powerfully:

Qualitative writers are off the hook, so to speak ¼ they can eschew thequestionable metanarratives of scienti® c objectivity and still have plenty tosay as situated speakers, subjectivities engaged in knowing/telling about theworld as they perceive it.

Though agreeing with the tone of Richardson’ s remarks, for some there is likely tobe a reluctance to abandon objectivity, but nevertheless, would accept her argumentfor the end of the suppression of the individual voice. Such a suppression can come,as has been seen, through the imposition and acceptance (through a system ofrewards and punishments in which the PhD is awarded or not, in which the journalarticle is published or not, in which promotion is granted or not) of a hegemonicacademic discourse about the `correct’ style and tone in writing. It can also comethrough a `writing block’ , the barrier to discovery and learning through writing.

Asking Questions of Ourselves

It is, of course, possible to track down the re¯ ective practice process and writing-as-

discovery-and-inquiry to the general area of cognition theory, and speci® cally, to whatcan be called metacognitive skills. Consistent with what has already been estab-lished, these are concerned with the capacity to ask questions of ourselves (Garner &Alexander, 1989). But clearly learning and those situations where it is not takingplace are also concerned with an emotional, an affective agenda. It is this agenda thatwill determine whether or not learning takes place. It includes how we feel aboutourselves as learners, the act of learning itself and the content and status of thelearning (Schmeck et al., 1991). Importantly, Brotchie et al. (1999, p. 6) note thatmotivation, the wish to learn, is not itself enough, and in echoing Knowles, `aslearners we also need a disposition to learn ¼ where disposition can be de® nedthrough inclination’ , `sensitivity’ and `viabilityº . Interestingly, these writers go on tonote Goleman’ s work (1996) on emotional intelligence, that has been well-receivedand much used in the ® eld of management. This is can be regarded as notunexpected or surprising because Goleman is much concerned with how peoplecope with and proactively manage their feelings. In a vivid quote, that this writer willrefer back to, Brotchie et al. (1999, p. 7) report Goleman (1996, p. 34) as saying ofemotional intelligence that it is about:

¼ being able to motivate oneself and persist in face of frustrations; tocontrol impulse and delay grati® cation; to regulate one’ s moods and keep

distress from swamping the ability to think [this writer’ s italics]; to empathiseand to hope.

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The PhD Student as an Adult Learner 59

In terms of the learning and/or writing block, Brotchie et al. (1999) report on theirown work in which they engaged in self-interviews to identify their own impedimentsto successful learning and writing. From that, they listed the following factors, whichhave been rearranged, by this writer, into technical and affective categories:

Technical

· Failing to see the intellectual patterns in the work in hand;· Being unable to solve problems as they come up;

Affective/Emotional

· The personal histories, essentially the individual pathologies, that reproducethemselves in how the current task or project is perceived and managed;

· Struggling with the autonomy that can and does make learning an isolatingexperience;

· Being victim to uncontrollable feelings.

The ® rst two factors can be seen as almost technical matters with emotional conse-quences; whereas the last three are clearly concerned almost in their entirety withemotional issues and consequences.

Brotchie et al. (1999) conclude by offering a hierarchy of self-evaluative processesthat may help to confront learning and writing blocks: a self-awareness; a self-moni-toring; a self-regulation; a self-ef® cacy (to which, might be added, in the spirit ofLaurel Richardson, the irreverent comment that such a list is easier said than done).

In this quest for self-knowledge in order to avoid or get round a serious learningand/or writing block, this writer set herself her own self-re¯ ective task, using manyof the tools and techniques discussed earlier to test them out. A short autobiograph-ical statement is included. The detachment of the previous sections is now invadedby the ® rst person’ . It is offered as an exploration for some of the learning andwriting blocks that I have experienced during my PhD project.

Autobiographical Statement

In the space of three years, in mid-life, I lost my parents suddenly; my belief that

those I love would be left untouched by serious illness and dreadful events beyond

their and my control; any sense, however limited, of justice in life or a `balancing

out’; interest in my career and my ® eld; any sense of progress in and control over

my PhD studies; my self-con® dence; any sense that I had anything meaningful

to contribute; my capacity and desire to write; my sense of self; and my own voice.

Despite this I managed to function! I held down my job as a lecturer and

continued with the `stand-up’ routines that so many of my lectures are. I did my

routines; the students laughed at my jokes; took down notes and wrote their

essays. I, on the other hand, could write nothing.

To return to Goleman’s description of emotional intelligence, the `engine of learn-

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60 H. Johnson

ing’ , according to Brotchie et al. (1999), that keeps any learning project on track, inthis instance a PhD, to completion. This was a period in my life when events entirelybeyond my control took over. The events, about which I will not elaborate further,lasted over a considerable period of time at frequent, and seemingly at regularintervals. As one event occurred and was dealt with, another happened. There wasno time to work the emotional consequences through before another crisis struck.To repeat the phrase of Goleman (1996), I was unable to `keep distress fromswamping (my) ability to think’ .

Re¯ ecting on this Autobiographical Episode

At the time, I did the best that I could to keep a¯ oat. I carried on with my lecturingwork (my evaluations remained very positive), attended committee meetings, sawstudentsÐ and so, on a day-to-day basis I was functioning and holding down my job.However, my PhD studies started to ¯ ounder. I could not in the many tutorialsgiven by my patient supervisors to explain coherently the nature of my project. I ama holistic thinker, having always to have the `big picture’ before focusing down fromthe general to the speci® c. Usually, I can play the `white board’ game in my head inwhich I make the link between areas and subjects into one coherent whole. (This isa view entirely consistent with the `mind map’ idea of Argyris & SchoÈ n, 1974). Inmy distress, I was no longer able to make or at least explain the relational patternsthat I knew, instinctively if rather than cognitively, existed. This led me to losecon® dence in my own abilities and to lose interest in the PhD project. It remained`something I was doing’ but which I did not actively pursue. This was compoundedby agreement with Laurel Richardson’ s views about writing style and tone. As myworld was collapsing, despite everything I was doing to shore it up, I could notpretend a God-like omniscience or omnipotence. I could not ® nd the correctdetached tone when I was fully engaged elsewhere. My writing tone was too casual.I was using too much anecdote and quotes from literature to illustrate my points.My supervisors advised me that I had to write in the appropriate academic dis-course. Of course, they were right, within a certain perspective. For, these were therules of the game that I had chosen to play. However, at a time when myself-con® dence was shaky, I did not stand and argue the point. Instead I felt that Iwas being pushed out of my own PhD thesis, the one in which I was going to re¯ ecton, to repeat Olson’ s words, `the beliefs, intentions, interpretations and interactionsof a lifetime’ . The PhD was not mine. I could not and seemingly was not allowed towrite in my own voice. I stopped writing.

In attempting to analyse my own behaviour, I can return to Brotchie et al. (1999)and their list of factors that can cause learning and writing blocks. In their terms, Iwas unable to complete certain technical tasks due to my high levels of negativityfrom past and current affective states and from my uncontrollable feelings. Myfeelings of isolation were overwhelming. I did not have suf® cient detachment anddistance to `play the game’ while everything else in my life really mattered sointensely. I could not process any more inside my head, and so I could not think.Goleman (1998, pp. 75± 76) offers a biochemical explanation:

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The PhD Student as an Adult Learner 61

¼ stress builds on stress. ¼ When the amygdala hits the brain’ s panicbutton, it induces a cascade that begins with the release of a hormoneknown as CRF and ends with a ¯ ood of stress hormones, mainly corti-sol ¼ . The hormones we secrete under stress are enough for a single boutof ® ght or ¯ ightÐ but once secreted, they stay in the body for hours, andeach successive upsetting incident adds more stress hormones to the levelsalready there. The resulting buildup can make the amygdala a hair trigger,ready to hijack into anger or panic at the least provocation.

Interestingly enough, I battled on to keep up appearances to the world out there andcontinued to teach effectively, according to my evaluations. Though adding freshmaterial to my lectures to keep up-to-date and relevant, I was probably `saved’ by,in Weberian terms, the routinised the support of the very structure, the interactionalroutine (Fairclough, 1992), of the teaching and learning situation.

Strategies for Emerging and Moving on

How have I emerged from this? A number of strategies seemed to have helped:

· My supervisors sensibly advised me to interrupt my PhD studies until my distressreached manageable levels. This allowed me time and space to rest and recover.

· I am not used to being unable to do and complete any task that I set myself; soonce again, the interruptions took me from a situation that in itself was causingme distress.

· I needed to survive and hold down my job. So to do so, I had to write four articlesfor the Research Assessment Exercise. I started to research into other things that,seemingly, were in no way related to the blocked PhD area. Papers were acceptedat conferences, and most importantly, I wrote articles that were published inrefereed academic journals.

· A new and third supervisor also intervened in a supportive way. He alsocon® rmed his belief in my abilities. He knew I could do this! He offered mealternative strategies to complete my studies. I was not locked into a negativesituation. If the worst came to the worse, there were other things I could do.Complete or not, I could emerge from this situation and project with someself-respectÐ and a way forward. The professional practice of this new supervisorhas been described by Kotter (1990) in these terms:

Motivation and inspiration energise people, not by pushing them in theright direction as control mechanisms but by satisfying basic humanneeds for achievement, a sense of belonging, a feeling of control overone’ s life, and the ability to live up to one’s ideals. Such feelings touchus deeply and elicit a powerful response.

Kotter calls this kind of behaviour leadership.

· My new supervisor also asked me the question that I had not thought about forsome considerable time: what was my research about? Cleverly, he asked me tosee if I could identify a pattern and commonalties in the PhD research and the

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62 H. Johnson

other projects successfully completed and published. On the face of it, therewould seem to be no obvious link between educational marketing and churchschools leadership. He gave me some space to do thisÐ but also, a clear deadlinein the foreseeable future, just two weeks away. He was reintroducing somesemblance of structure to the PhD process, and the PhD project was being brokendown into manageable chunks, instead of the vast, enveloping mammoth that ithad grown into in my head. I went away and thought. Given such a deceptivelysimple task (it was only to cover a couple of sheets of A4), the patterns and linksstarted to emerge. Whether writing about church schools or marketers in highereducation, I was clearly interested in role theory, especially role con¯ ict; identityand its construction; and culture in its many forms, especially that found inorganisations. Doubtless, such an agenda arises from my own personal andprofessional history. Goleman (1998, p. 51), in fact, would be surprised if thisagenda did not; for he explains that:

Every experience that we have an emotional reaction to, no matter howsubtle, seems to be encoded in the amygdala ¼ . Whenever we have apreference of any kind ¼ that is a message from the amygdala ¼ and via(its) circuitry ¼ we can have a somatic responseÐ literally, a `gut feel-ing’ Ð to the choices we face.

With the clear identi® cation of my own interests and this support from these twocolleagues, my con® dence returned. I now wanted to write! Given the necessaryspace and lack of pressure from other demands, writing was now once againenjoyable. I could look up from my computer to ® nd out that ® ve hours had gonein a ¯ ash. I felt that I could now write in something that was recognisably my ownvoice, with my own tone that was also obviously human but nevertheless attempt-ing some objectivity. If my argument is rationally constructed, I cannot under-stand why articles written on a computer have to read as though they were writtenby a computer.

Provisional Conclusions

In all, what does this tell us, tell me? It is clear that re¯ ection on action, on pastevents and critical incidents (such a learning and writing block), can help in theunderstanding of what happened and why. This is in itself useful as it gives usknowledgeÐ and it can also be seen in a therapeutic way of helping us to close certainbusiness down and to move on. Most importantly, such re¯ ection can help in thedevising of strategies that may assist in future experiences. It is clear that forre¯ ection on action to be really worthwhile it must be transferable and re-useable infuture experiences. Thus, such knowledge must be integrated into the knowing-in-action that SchoÈ n (1988) says that professionals `come to depend on to performtheir work’ . This knowledge must be fully absorbed into the automatic responses thatindividuals make under pressure, stress and distress; and in that way can assist in themanagement of stress itself. In this way, this knowledge becomes part of the doing, partof the action and so becomes part of the continuous re¯ ection in action that profes-

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The PhD Student as an Adult Learner 63

sionals engage in when their work `spontaneously produces an unexpected outcomeor surprise’ . (Or, as in the case study offered here, does not produce an expectedoutcome such as learning and writing.) Dispassionate re¯ ection on action has littlevalue if it is not used as a vital component of the design of new and future action.Clearly, I have learnt what it is like to be a student attempting an academic projectin the constructivist mode. My own experiences can only assist me in supervisingothers as they engage in their own research inquiry projects and dissertations.

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