You may have noticed that in many of my posts I lean on a
familiar invitation: “picture this.” It slips in like an old friend,
taps you on the shoulder, and says, “Come with me, I’ve got a scene to show
you.” That habit didn’t come out of nowhere. It was shaped in a classroom,
where I watched students lean forward when something looked clear, when
ideas were laid out like a map instead of a maze.
Picture this (there I go again): a classroom buzzing just
before lunch. One student is sketching a diagram so detailed it could hang in a
gallery. Another is quietly rereading notes, tracing lines with a finger like
they’re following a trail through the woods. These were the visual learners, at
least, that’s what we called them. They seemed to grasp things best when they
could see them, charts, graphs, diagrams, even well-organized paragraphs
that didn’t wander off like a distracted storyteller.
So, when I started writing posts, I naturally leaned into
that strength. I painted scenes. I built little word-pictures. I tried to make
ideas visible. Not because I had a grand theory about it, but because it felt
like handing someone a flashlight instead of asking them to walk in the dark.
But here’s where it gets interesting, and where, if I’m
honest, I have to smile a bit at myself.
I could just as easily have written for the ear instead of
the eye.
Instead of “picture this,” I might have said, “listen to
this.”
Listen to this: the low hum of conversation in a coffee
shop, cups clinking, a chair scraping softly across the floor. A voice rises
just enough to tell a story, pauses for effect, then lands the point like a
well-timed punchline. Some people remember that moment not because they saw
it, but because they heard it. The rhythm, the tone, the little pauses
that make meaning stick.
If I were writing with sound in mind, I might swap out my
visual cues for something more like this:
Instead of saying, “picture a winding path through a
forest,” I’d say, “hear the crunch of gravel under your feet as you walk a
quiet trail, the wind moving through the trees like a soft whisper.”
Instead of “imagine a bright summer morning,” I’d go with
“listen for the screen door slamming, kids laughing in the distance, and a lawn
mower droning somewhere down the street.”
Same idea. Different doorway.
And here’s the twist in the tale, the part that gently pokes
at all of us who spent years trying to match teaching styles to learning styles
like we were pairing socks.
A lot of research has stepped in over the years and said,
“You know what? This neat little system we’ve been using, visual, auditory,
kinesthetic, it doesn’t quite hold up the way we thought.” In other words,
teaching someone only in their preferred style doesn’t necessarily make
them learn better or remember more.
That can feel a bit like discovering your favourite shortcut
actually takes longer.
But before we throw out the paintbrushes and turn off the
microphones, there’s something worth holding onto.
What does help people learn and remember is richness.
Variety. Engagement.
It turns out the brain isn’t sitting there saying, “Sorry, I
only accept information in visual format between the hours of 9 and 11.” It’s
far more flexible, and far more interested in meaning, emotion, and connection.
So maybe the value in “picture this” was never just about
visual learning.
Maybe it was about invitation.
It was a way of saying, “Step into this moment with me.”
And if I add a little sound, a little movement, maybe even a
touch of humour, well, now we’re not just looking at an idea, we’re
experiencing it.
Let me give you one more example, just for fun.
Visual version:
Picture yourself putting off a small task, say, fixing a squeaky brake. The
calendar pages flip, the problem sits quietly in the corner, and then one day, bam,
you’re looking at a repair bill that makes your eyebrows climb halfway up your
forehead.
Auditory version:
Hear that faint squeal every time you tap the brakes? You turn up the radio to
drown it out. A week later, it’s louder. Two weeks later, it’s practically
singing a solo. And then comes the mechanic’s voice, calm, steady, and just a
little too cheerful, telling you it’s no longer a “quick fix.”
Same story. Different sensory hook. Same lesson… with maybe
a slightly more expensive ending.
If there’s a takeaway here, it’s not that we’ve been doing
it wrong. It’s that we’ve been doing it partially. Like telling a story
with only half the instruments in the band.
So, I’ll probably still say “picture this.” Old habits,
after all, are loyal companions.
But I might start inviting you to listen more often too.
Because the real goal isn’t to match a style, it’s to make
the message land, linger, and maybe even make you smile along the way.
And if I can do that while gently reminding myself that I
don’t have to paint every scene like a landscape artist… well, that’s a lesson
worth hearing, and seeing, at the same time.
