Unsure

The theater is smaller than I expected, a store front building with 80 chairs lined up in neat rows. For some odd reason the numbering starts from the rear, and row A, where I sit, is furthest from the stage. My father, next to me, keeps his jacket on over his sweater and shirt.  We've come to see Mr. Percifield in a community theater production of Oliver.  He and I have been in only sporadic contact for the last 40 years, but in high school much of my life revolved around his.  He introduced me to debate, and to my high school boyfriend.  He coached me, accompanied me to debate camp in the summer, drove me to state and national tournaments.  He directed the spring musical and I was his student director.  A short stocky man from Southern Indiana with a big laugh, tender demeanor, and liberal tendencies, he is a fixture in my adolescent memories. In all the years I performed in front of him, I've never seen him perform.  Sure, he would demonstrate how to deliver a line, but I've never seen him on stage.  The show is entertaining, but clearly amateur, and Mr. Percifield at times seems unsure of his lines. I clap heartily and congratulate him warmly after the show.

Leaving the theater, I turn in the crowded lobby to see if my father is following me. For only an instant, I see his frailty--his white hair, confused look, uncertain stance. He pauses as if unsure how to make his way safely through the jumble of patrons. I reach out to take his arm and we walk into the welcome cool air of night.

I drive home along a familiar road of childhood.  Even though it is dark, I can see the drifting dune sand in places crossing the road, bridging the space between the lake and the forest.  The changing leaves echo my changes.  Brilliant reds, deep  golds, satiny browns. I'm walking on a narrow path of the present, somewhere between the past and the future. Unsure.

Measures of success

When I teach undergraduate research methods we spend a good deal of time focused on the idea of measurement...how do you measure an abstract concept?  I lead students through an exercise where they take a concept, like wisdom, and develop measurable indicators of the idea.  I usually start with a discussion of the college ranking system used by U.S. News and World Report.  We talk about the indicators used, such as graduation rates, average SAT scores, and faculty to student ratios.  Are those indicators of a "good" school?  Are they the best?  The only?  I have a great reading that talks about the value of "soft measures" as well.  Are the school grounds attractive?  Are the buildings well  maintained?  Are faculty in their offices?

Measuring success has been on my mind.  How will I know if I'm successful in my new position?  I have some clear metrics, increased undergraduate enrollment, increased alumni support, and more faculty publications.  But on the day to day activities I find it harder.  Often after a meeting with faculty or alums I'm asked by my staff, "How did it go?"  I am baffled by the question.  What would make it a good meeting?  What would a successful outcome look like, or more importantly these days for me, what would it feel like?

After my first advisory board meeting I expected to feel either tremendously relieved to have gotten through it or wildly ecstatic about the outcome.  Instead, there was a blankness.  The meeting went well in that I was able to answer most questions, people seemed comfortable, there was conversation...was that the only goal?  What else could have happened?  It wasn't as stressful as I anticipated, so no big relief afterwards.  Is that good?  Should it be "just" another meeting?  Is it an indication that I was well-prepared?  I suppose what is nagging at me is that I somehow missed an opportunity...but for what?  I can't really think of what I would have done differently.

How should I measure my success on a day to day, meeting to meeting, basis?  What do I need to do to earn a gold star?

                                                     

Finding my voice

 

Back in my graduate school days, a highlight of professional conferences was the alumni night mixer.  Held in a big ballroom there was a band, alcohol, smoking and 1,000 or more people.  Sort of like a grown up frat party....

At one such event I noticed that I was having a great deal of difficulty talking in the noisy, smoky room and chalked it up to that--a night of noise and smoke.  Since then I would occasionally experience the same problem, losing my voice in noisy environments like parties, basketball games, and train stations.  Then I started having trouble lecturing, especially a second class on the same day.  I would find myself choking, coughing, eyes watering, nose running, unable to talk.  It started happening at lunch, in meetings, at presentations.  Some times I would be fine, other times not. I tried slowing down, drinking water, taking deep breaths.  Some times it would work, other times not.



Was this a real problem?  Was it my imagination? Was it just stress?  Was it all in my head?  Many days I was fine, but often enough to bother me, I was not. Finally this year I sought the advice of an ENT.  After his examination ruled out any structural problems, he sent me to a speech therapist.  I was able to have 5 sessions before my move.  We worked on some simple exercises, that, I admit, I had little faith in. I did my lip trills, read my lists of words, cut carbonated drinks out of my diet, and got better control of my reflux symptoms. I didn't notice a marked improvement. 

My job requires me to talk....a lot.  I have meetings, presentations, lectures, parties, a variety of events where my ability to communicate is key and where I am being judged on my "presentation of self."  Coughing and choking are not conducive to presenting a professional image.
                                                                                                                                                                               
 

Frustrated, I once again sought out help.  The new speech therapist has some new diagnoses--vocal chord dysfunction and "vocal fry," and some new ideas for treatment.  Most importantly, she assured me that I was not making this up and that it was a real, and treatable, problem.  She let me cry in her office.

It has me thinking about how we view our voices and the role they play in our identity.  So much of our perception of others is based on they talk and how we hear. It makes sense then that focusing on how we feel about our own voices is emotional and close.  People will often talk about needing to find their voice in a metaphoric way.  They mean that they are looking for how they express themselves...learning to have confidence that what they say matters.  I'm looking for my voice in a very literal sense...learning again how to have confidence in my vocal chords.

                                    

On the train

 

For several years I've enjoyed listening to a song by The Roches. "The Train" is a ballad of the frustrations of commuting.  Until recently, the words and message were an abstract concept.  Now I am a regular train commuter.  With time, my train experiences are growing and the song resonates on a whole new level.

I've adjusted to the occasional sleeping homeless person, the man shadow boxing his demons in the reflection of the glass door, the people selling socks, asking for change, or speaking to unseen companions.  But, until today, I had not encountered the wild children.  Boarding the train at 5:20 pm, there were many empty seats and I joined the ear-budded riders with my podcast of "Hardcore History" describing the reign of Genghis Khan.  At the next stop a family entered our car with two children, a girl of about 4 and a boy of perhaps 7 years of age. The kids screamed and ran up and down the car, they swung from the handholds, they climbed on the seats.  At each stop the car filled and the parents tried to gain control. I'm usually pretty sympathetic to parents traveling with children, I actually volunteer to sit next to them on planes. But, as these kids clambered on the bench next to me, I seriously considered hopping out and moving to another car.  The more the father tried to discipline him, the louder the boy screamed...and I mean SCREAMED.

At this time of day, the train is mainly filled with workers heading home after their long days of labor.  We are a quiet and respectful group for the most part. There is rarely any conversation, any noise other than the recorded announcements of the next stop and admonishments not to lean against the doors. I had not realized how peaceful the ride was until that peace was disrupted.

I exited the train at my usual station, glad to leave the chaos behind.  As the Roches sing,


"Once you step on
you might never get off
of the commuter train
it doesn't go very far away
but just the same
it s a trip and a half"

Eye of the beholder

I read this today:

 "(her) path to (this position) was a wild ride—unpredictable, nonlinear, and filled with surprising twists. Over the course of her life, she has found one constant: pursuing her fascinations, no matter how circuitous and rudderless her career journey sometimes has seemed. She has taken risks and exemplified other qualities noted in highly creative individuals, seeking out new experiences and connecting the dots in seemingly unrelated situations, as she has followed her interests—and discovered her passions."

Wow, who is that person?  She sounds interesting and adventurous.  Wouldn't it be neat to live a life like that?
    
                        

Gaining through loss

I'm interested in reading a book titled, "A Field Guide to Getting Lost," by Rebecca Solnit.  I was drawn in by a review I read which included some excerpts. My favorite was

Lost really has two disparate meanings. Losing things is about the familiar falling away, getting lost is about the unfamiliar appearing. There are objects and people that disappear from your sight or knowledge or possession; you lose a bracelet, a friend, the key. You still know where you are. Everything is familiar except that there is one item less, one missing element. Or you get lost, in which case the world has become larger than your knowledge of it.

 I think the difference between losing things and losing "yourself" is an interesting comparison to make. When you lose a thing, what you know falls away.  When you lose yourself, you are in moving into uncharted territory. 

It struck me since with my move to a new city and new job I feel in some ways I've both lost things and lost myself.  Everything is new--the people, the neighborhood, the sounds, the garbage collection day.  Being in a foreign place requires more energy, more confidence, more attention.  You are forced to deal with new and unfamiliar things every day. At the same time, those experiences, and now this move, allow you to find inner reserves you didn't know you had, skills and abilities you never had to exercise before.  This experience reminds me of my two extended stays abroad, as a college student and nearly 30 years later as an adult.  After both of those times I felt I was a different person than before.  I already feel that now.

Feeling lost helps you find things.

The Chicago Chronicles

Late last night, when I couldn't sleep, I decided I needed to write a book--The Chicago Chronicles.

The chapters would be

Saying Goodbye:  how hard it is to leave a familiar place
The Move: including the ultimately unnecessary trip back to NY
All Things New: with a major emphasis on "who is this person?" A question asked by me and to me
Being:  a new person in a new place

I think I'm almost ready to start that final chapter.