Whatever happened to...?

Okay, I'm still here. It's just that I've been having a lot of trouble with PhD school recently--namely staying in it. My friend Susan (who is caught up with her assignments, unlike me) tells me I'm just trying too hard to learn something. She feels it isn't possible to do both the reading and the assignments. She appears to be correct in that she has actually done the work I can't get to. My other two friends from PhD school seem to be about as on top of things as I am. Lisa says, "This is starting to get ugly."
'Ugly' doesn't half describe it. One of the papers I just turned in began with a comparison of my course work to cutting the head off a dead dog with a pruning saw. (Don't ask.) I'm supposed to be leaving for Kenya in a few days (during which time three out of four professors have scheduled a conference call) and I still have a twelve page paper to write and to complete Frau Library Research's course. Then there are the girls.
However behind I may be in graduate school, my granddaughter/roommate has me beat by a mile. I met with her adviser this afternoon (instead of working on my homework) who told me she is flunking three of her four classes. She could attempt to make up for lost time but tonight she has a headache. The apparent best cure for this is to watch some television with Jersey in the title which she indicated will prepare her for her career plan of becoming homeless person.
Our exchange student is also downstairs (in a different room) making something that sounds like Onday-Onday for her big presentation on Indonesia tomorrow at school. I don't know what Onday-Onday is but I will tell you it has peanuts, tuna fish, ground soy beans, green food color, coconut milk and is deep-fried. It will be the first green stuff I've seen her eat since she got here. The sauce of ground peanuts, red chili peppers and corn starch looks inviting. Unfortunately, I won't be there to try it. I'll be taking Jim back to University Hospital for his post-surgical, pre-safari check up. Unlike the rest of us, he says he's feeling better than he has in years. He seems to have finally gotten all the repairs out of the way and will be good for another hundred thousand miles.
I was hoping to use tomorrow for the library course, but why ruin my record. It will give my granddaughter some competition for who can do the least homework in a single week.
So ugly is as ugly does--or doesn't, in my case. I am trying to look at the bright side. At least I'm catching up on the blog.

Procrastination tips for the weak willed.

It's eight o'clock on Sunday night and I have less than four hours to post my research homework before I am officially late. There's a half-finished PowerPoint blinking at me from the bottom of the screen reminding me that ready or not, on Friday I have a date to interpret Art Chickering's student identity development theory to a group of people who may or may not find it interesting, depending on the presentation. That particular presentation will occur after I show the movie I haven't finished editing and for which I have not yet found an emotional connection. Across the hall, Adel, the Indonesian exchange student is having a melt-down. It's been coming on for almost a week. Naturally, it seems the perfect time to blog.
Of all of these challenges, Adel's is the most compelling. She doesn't want to go backpacking. No, that isn't strong enough. Of all the things in the world the school might ask her to do that go against every fiber of her being, backpacking currently heads the list. She asks me, "Is this a military school for which marching up and down hills carrying your house on your back is necessary for protection of the government?"
"Why can't I stay home and do something useful?" she asks ten minutes later after I explain the value of long encounters with nature, group challenge, facing your fears and defecating with bears. She just keeps shaking her head. She's a very bright and articulate girl and I am not fooling her with this rehashed rhetoric from the school website.
Earlier this afternoon I called in the liaison person from the exchange organization. After two hours of attempted persuasion, we both agreed to meet with her teachers and the head of school to provide support for her arguments. I'm not hopeful, but I'll be there for her. And a lot of what she says makes sense to me.
In the first place, the school doesn't do tent camping. This is unfortunate in the land of endless rain, but it's downright unacceptable for a Muslim girl on a co-ed trip who is afraid of the dark and never lived anywhere where it gets colder than eighty degrees. Second, see my last blog on progressive education and as Adel says, "Where is my voice? Why must I blindly obey what I know I do not like." Yes, Adel already went camping for the school orientation and as she puts it, "Why eat more bugs when I already tried the first plate and know I do not like? How does taking more change this?"
Just now I went to help her pack. She showed me her day pack. "No, you must take everything on the list," I explain. She doesn't argue. I get her an almost big enough back pack, pull out her sleeping bag and pad, begin to ask about the long underwear, rain suit, fleece that we bought two weeks ago. She disintegrates into tears. That's why I'm across the hall, unable to study, powerless to know what to do next.
So here's a tip if you can't find any other way to avoid doing homework. Get yourself a couple of litters of small kittens to foster, a deaf and blind terrier who doesn't prefer to go outside in the rain, a husband with a hernia, a granddaughter who is omniscient and a sweet agoraphobic Indonesian exchange student sponsored by a school that prides itself on its outdoor education program. You may never get around to productive activity but you may have a craving to start a blog.

'Progressing' into fall

This is, no doubt, on my mind because the girls and I are now deep into the new term of school. The girls and I are also living that experiment named "progressive education"--and I'm in the middle of deep thought about organizational systems at my progressive school that I believe is spawned right from that same historical stream. The girls and I are also pondering why there doesn't seem to be anything very progressive happening in the real world that relates to the ideals of either management theory or so-called progressive education.
What's interesting is that in the way my world seems to work, it's also on the minds of the guy who started Facebook and Oprah (although it was on my mind first, I'm sure of it). I don't have big money to throw at it --or to get somebody to do my research so I have more time to think before I write these papers that will soon be past due. But I do have plenty of thoughts.
Why pay anywhere from $10,000 to $40,000 a year so your kid or grandkid can get something you theoretically already paid for in taxes? My best answer is, "hope." Most of us live where the public school system is at best harmless and at worst broken. A 'harmless' education is never what I hoped for for my kids. I hoped, and am still hoping, for a dangerous education, something that lights them up, heats them up, and sends them out in the world inspired to make it better. With that thought in mind, I enrolled Sydney in what seemed like a pretty progressive place. They had Alfie Kohn as the fall speaker! They said they did a lot of learning outside the classroom. They said there would be no homework. After last year I knew our road to hell was paved with their good intentions. There was too much homework, too many lectures, too many tests and not a whole lot of flexibility for individual learning styles, abilities or even a nod to the more universal tasks of intellectual development. Sidney wanted to return anyway. She loves her friends. And I volunteered for the school program council in hope that I might light some fires.
Adel arrived from Indonesia this year full of hope for her new school. We're only in the second week and her hope is diminishing. She's not a complainer. She's somebody who has always loved school. Her experience at her new school has so far been sitting in classrooms where the teachers assign too much homework, don't give enough feedback, seem unwilling to explain the "how and why" of things and prepare poorly.
Then there's my school. I haven't given up hope, but I miss sincere interaction. Despite good intentions, ("You don't have to post just so we know you are there") that is exactly what we seem to be doing--when the system works. It doesn't seem very reliable so far. We are excited to learn the skills for sustained organizational change, but I get the idea, like at Sydney's school, that under pressure we revert to Theory X "because I said so."
But I didn't get up to blog on a Saturday morning just to confirm hopelessness in America. After all there's a new documentary out and Oprah wants me to see it. (And I'm hopeful that I will find the time.) My own new documentary about the Mudd engineering students' second trip to Kenya will be shown next week. It's hard not to be hopeful when you see what these talented kids accomplished and the impact that experience made on them. And Sidney, Adel and I are proposing some independent studies for this year in hopes that if we do it well enough it may ignite a spark in a sagging curriculum. I hope so.

Let the head bashing and teeth gnashing begin

One of my friends is a member of A.A. and when she first started going to meetings, she told me about something called "share despair." Basically, it's that terrible feeling you get after you say something out loud--that sense that you have just made a complete idiot of yourself. Sharing one's thoughts can sometimes lead to remorse and often times for me, downright shame.
Why share this revelation today?
Three reasons. First, I just submitted my first "response"to on-line PhD school and wouldn't you know, it's to the research methodology class. After re-reading it, I remembered why I am known as Captain Random on my pub trivia team. Most people don't equate Shroedinger's thought experiment to qualitative research design or find Douglas Adams the most scholarly person to quote. Never mind how I deduced that the two of them strung together were the right answer to my "thoughtful response to the reading."
Just a few hours previous I had a telephone chat with one of my favorite board members on methods to make boards more relevant. Fortunately, Adams and/or Schrodinger hadn't yet crossed my mind. Unfortunately, I had Douglas McGregor's Theory X and Theory Y management models pinging in my frontal lobe. Here's a tip. Do not attempt to influence governing boards of the ineffectiveness of top-down management systems. Even if it is the most enlightened person on the planet, board membership trumps new graduate student acquisition of knowledge every time. I haven't had so much 'share despair' since I took my first poetry seminar and intimated that Rilke was a Spanish lesbian.
Finally, just to assure I may never leave my house again, I sent off the trailer to the Gulf oil-spill piece. I showed it to my husband Jim, first, who having just had surgery is on some pain-killers. I figured it couldn't hurt him. It didn't, but he did ask why the camera was focused on the lady's bust during the interview instead of her face. I sent it off anyway. What was I thinking?
Of course, someone who blogs ought to be way past share despair Not only do I keep blogging, but continue to blab my darkest fears and silliest thoughts. Yesterday I sent the link to my brother Jack under the theory that the family that shares together despairs together. Jack, my dear brother who responded "I am not the blog-type" but to whom I persisted and insisted, can now share the shame. For the rest of you, thanks for any awkward silences you can send my way while I await comments from professors, film critics and board members.

High Anxiety and other night terrors

It's a reoccurring dream that I'm told lots of people have in one form or another. I have a final and show up having forgotten to put on any clothes. Or I suddenly realize I have enrolled in a class that I forgot about and it's the end of the term. Or I am late to take the final for an important class and no matter how much I rush, I never get any closer to the building. Usually I wake up in a sweat then get back to sleep relieved that the bad old days are behind me. Only now they are not. And this is no dream.
It's a week into school and I am a month behind. How can this be? As if in a dream, I read and read but I get no closer to being caught up. There are questions to which I should have already responded. I read them. I read pages to which they refer. I read them again. Nothing. Nada. Not a single light in the darkness of my brain. There are plenty of thoughts though, like "I am the stupidest person in the entire program" or "I am so far behind I should quit now and stop torturing myself." These are generally followed by rationalizations such as, "Even if I am the stupidest person, there are plenty of stupid people with PhD's and/or "I can't be irrevocably and hopelessly behind. It's only a week into the semester."
My panic stems in part not from being behind, but from what's ahead. My husband has surgery in the morning. Although we seem to be working as fast as we can, the film projects are getting log jammed again--one due now, another due at the end of the month, a third due in October and let's not even consider the pig piece. The newspaper is coming to do a story on the house (intended to spark some business for some of the local craftspeople)--yes, the house that hasn't been cleaned since July. There's too much junk to hide by Wednesday. The animal shelter is still overrun with cats. There are five of them in one of the bathrooms--also too many to hide by Wednesday. And the assignments get bigger and bigger by the week. Okay, so my life is actually no different than anybody else's. Blog-whining is so tasteless.
One idea might be to go to the drug store and buy a case of those 5-hour energy drinks, drink at least one, speed read the research assignment and this time stay awake past page five of the first article--then jump on line and write something, anything, no matter how inane. This will give the professor a sense of real accomplishment at the end of the term (assuming I have a clue by then). Drink the second energy drink, finish the reading for the next class and respond to those introspective questions regarding "self and organization." Sleep deprivation could be just the ticket for thwarting anxiety.
On the other hand, I should probably be conscious when I take the girls to school and drive Jim to the hospital in the morning. I'll need a steady hand for the camera work later. Kittens need love,too. And somebody has to be the last to turn in the assignment. At least one of my fellow students will feel better thinking, "At least I'm ahead of her."

Getting "Organizationalized"

The other day my son Pete and I went for a little ride. We're partners in two supposedly for-profit businesses that have been steadily losing money and these rides give us a chance to complain to each other about our failures. Pete also remembers when I used to be a consultant that helped businesses solve exactly the same problems we're struggling with. (Yes, I do seem to have lost my touch. Good thing I'm in PhD school to learn a thing or two.)
"Mom, I can't get the employees to solve their own problems. They either do the wrong thing or wait for me to come find a fix."
"Maybe we need to invest more time in training." (Reoccurring mom answer for everything.)
Fortunately before we got too far down that road, both literally and metaphorically, I remembered that I have been diligently reading my Humanistic Foundations text, Productive Workplaces Revisited. I would have thought of it sooner, but I am still in Part 1 reading about this person Taylor, who despite my being known as the-book-of-the-month manager, I had somehow failed to study earlier in my career. Taylor, according to the author, is the father of all these management ideas from which we consultants have been making a living. (He also the first known workplace consultant and from what I've read, experienced the same positive results/negative reviews I've had a few times. People always seemed happier to pay my fees when my work didn't actually do anything--the negative results/positive reviews effect.)
While I was mulling over what Taylor might have done if he ran a car dealership, we passed a car purchased from my nearest competitor with the bumper sticker, "Change is good. You go first." At least he wasn't an employee, but he obviously hadn't been moved to take his business across the street by my unchanging but ever revolving team members. Back to the book.
Taylor applied his creative genius in the early part of the last century at places like Bethlehem Steel with astonishing increases in productivity and profitability. His idea was to have the flexibility to put the people who were best at something to work in that job and move those who weren't so great somewhere where they could be. He believed that managers weren't there to be the boss but there to support workers to higher productivity. It was a big change for industry at that time just as it probably would be if we did it at my business today. Despite his track record, few people went for it and some of those reverted back because change, as we all know, is both unpleasant and easily sabotaged. Hence, the bumper stick.
A hundred and twenty years later, most of us are still waiting for somebody else to do it first. And despite my also never-changing mantra, I am beginning to understand that training is not the answer. It doesn't hurt, but if that were all it took, my granddaughter would now be a straight A student and my husband could use the microwave.
What is the answer? Apparently not Taylorism, God rest his soul. He died at fifty-nine feeling pretty discouraged about people's ability to understand what he meant and why it worked. His ideas got bastardized and he was vilified as the kind of guy that worked his people to death and never paid fairly for the increase in productivity. (Another thing I can relate to.)
Pete says he just wants everybody to care about the customer. This may be one place where Taylor's ideas could apply. He knew that people operated more out of self-interest than altruism. I'll have to read the next four chapters to enlighten you further on how that works and why it doesn't seem to be solving any problems for Pete and I, either. As I am only behind about six hundred pages, my next blog should be a real eye-opener.

How to remain wide-awake while reading The Oxford Guide to Library Research

There are books so engaging that I have accidentally stayed up all night unable to stop reading. It is possible that The Oxford guide to library research: How to find reliable information online and offline is one of those books for you. However, chances are if you are reading my blog, it isn't your kind of thing. (There are more appropriate blogs on the subject so why waste you time here, right?) Just in case you find yourself required to read the above book and are having any trouble getting through more than five pages without feeling you you just took 10mg. of Ambien, here is how I managed to be absolutely wide awake for a full three chapters including, Preface, Initial Overviews, and the very compelling, Subject Headings and Library Catalogue.

To assure complete alertness, begin with a sixteen year-old kid. Either gender will do, but the effect will be better if he/she is relatively self-involved and hasn't had much supervision. He/she should have recently acquired a driver's license and have at least one new best friend with a felony record.

Leave your keys in the car. Leave the house with your significant other to prepare for some major family event like a wedding/Christmas/funeral. (This will assure you are sufficiently preoccupied when the teen asked if felonious friend can come over.) When you return home you will notice that your car is missing. Text your teen to ask that he/she return. If you have followed these instructions sufficiently, the teen will text back something to the effect of, "I will but I am an hour and a half away in another town (undocumented subtext: with people you don't know and wouldn't approve of who are drunk.) Respond by insisting the teen return home immediately.

At this point you can begin reading the Oxford Guide. Minutes will seem like hours as you hyper-focus on every scintillating word in order to distract yourself from thoughts of murdered and mutilated teen (not by you, at this point). Interrupt your reading every fifteen minutes to call the teen (who will not answer, hopefully because they are driving) and check her Facebook page. If you are lucky like me, after a couple of hours you will see a news post on Facebook from your teen talking about what an AWESOME night it has been. At this point you can assume she is home and you may begin to search the house to find out where she has put herself in order to avoid the "serious conversation" you have been promising by phone and text. When you find her, do not hit her on the legs with a pillow to wake her up no matter how relieved you are that she is home and safe. (I can tell you from experience she will tell all friends you beat her.) Do not yell. (Also creates drama and sympathy from friends). Quietly and sanely send her to her room. Pick up your copy of the Oxford Guide. You will be impressed with how alert you are. In fact, the Oxford Guide may be your only hope of ever sleeping again.

Having successfully discovered the secret of completing the reading for Rsch 1006, my new hope is that this isn't an experiment in state-dependent learning. In any event, I'm hoping that the Foundations reading requires a little less high blood pressure and a lot more peace of mind.

Day 7: Reincarnation vs. Reentry

The end of the conference didn't happen quite as off-into-the-sunset as I'd hoped. Shani returned from checking her bag and said she felt a little funny. I launched into one of my food poisoning 101 lectures while she patiently smiled. An hour later I was feeling a little funny, too. I made it up to my room to put away my computer, realizing almost immediately that there was nothing little or funny about how I was feeling. An hour later I was moaning and writhing on the floor. "Worse than labor" I thought, "and no nice surprise at the end."
Don called to ask a question about whether Sydney should be going to another town with people we didn't know for an undetermined amount of time. Normally I am able to pay attention to these conversations. I could only say, "Not now, really sick." This sent him into a panic in which he called the hotel manager and the President of the University to implore them to break into my room and transport me by force, if necessary, to the nearest medical facility. (To Don's credit, he knows I'd have to be near death not to demand specifics re: Syd and her generally random plans.) Robert, long suffering conference director, got tagged with the dubious task of driving me to the ER where they pumped me full of medicine immediately.
I am grateful to one and all for the intervention. Having survived the near-death experience, I awoke to a new day and maybe a near-reincarnation to my new life--post conference PhD student.
Meanwhile back at the homestead, most everyone was glad to see me. (The exception to this is always my husband's cat. She took one look at my returning suitcase and threw up on my side of the bed.) Our new exchange student Adel had survived the ordeal of the dogs who hadn't been taken out for days. Jim hadn't lost too much weight secondary to his inability to use the microwave. My dog Elvis was ecstatic and remains seizure free. The new little dog, Peter, who is totally deaf and pretty much blind, had forgotten who I am but still likes me anyway. The UPS lady (who really likes me) has been delivering books daily since Monday. I have weighed them (a disappointing 9.6 pounds--hardly a proper pound/dollar ratio) but haven't opened them. I thought I'd give myself a day then maybe print some study guides and get going tomorrow. Except tomorrow I have appointments and Saturday I have to leave for my granddaughter Melissa's wedding So maybe I should open them Sunday, but the house is filfthy (dogs really didn't seem to get out much) and there's no food in the refrigerator (someone besides Jim obviously ate it) and my bookshelves need rearranging to make room for the new shipment. I could start with a trip to the bookstore to buy something on procrastination....
BTW (as Syd would say) her Highness popped in for a second to tell me she was on her way to Sally's Hair Supply to buy Revolution (which I seem to recall is a flea medicine) so we really haven't seen each other but she is alive and I didn't notice any new piercings. Is there such a thing as reentry in retrograde?

Day 5: Hitting the Wall

When I used to run competitively more than ten miles, there would be a time in the process where I wasn't sure if my hips had fallen out of their sockets, my kidneys had exploded or I'd been attacked with a hatchet by the runner behind me (assuming there was anyone left who hadn't passed me). Today I was midway through the first morning class (Executive Coaching) when I had the sitting-in-this-chair-for one-more-second equivalent of that experience. I considered the options and was about to resort to embarrassing bodily noises when one of my classmates proved once again that I'm the slow kid. The alarm on his cell phone went off. He jumped up and said, "Sorry, medical emergency" and ran from the room. If I could have texted six or seven others to do the same, it might work. Mass exodus for medical emergencies seems a lot more credible than me jumping up and shouting, "Me too." The professor could assume we all had food poisoning from the buffet (a growing probability) or legionnaire's disease from the freezer they use to ventilate the first floor ladies' room. Lucky for me, we went to the 'experiential' part of the program before my inhibitions went blue screen, but the new plan still wasn't allowing me to lay prone on the floor which was my real ambition.

Lunch might conceivably have provided a reprieve but day five of the bland buffet is the gastronomic equivalent of sitting-in-this-chair-for-one-more-second. Many were saved by the fact that they actually ran out of food. I am not sure how this happened unless a few fellow students were attempting suicide with the chicken-like thing slathered in the bar-b-q- like sauce. Whatever the reason, the result was the devolution of humanistic Jungian psychologists into something a little more primal and Freudian. I've sunk to the place where this actually refreshed me enough so that when Shani suggested a walk, I went.

Seeing the sky helped a lot. Breathing outdoor un-recirculated air helped even more.

My saner self was returning. I could complete this race. The finish line is nearly in sight.

The afternoon session was fun. "Heck, I can do this with a bit of grace," I thought.

"What's next, Shani?" I asked, ready to move on to the last mile of the day.

"Library research," she said, and I gamely got on the elevator going down (which turned out to be a metaphor as well as a direction).

Our first clue should have been that our other buddies weren't there. In fact, for a course so required that you are automatically registered for it (see day one), the room was pretty empty. Frau Librarian was already in process and appeared none too happy about it. We were just getting started on the enchanting finer points of APA notation when the English guy seated by the door raised his hand. "Why do we have to use that? The school isn't even APA accredited." Sensing the equivalent of the earlier lunch riots, I perked right up. Frau professor hardened her grip on her mouse and explained this was what Saybrook required. English man persisted. "That seems fascist to me," he said. Shani and I looked at each other. Bad choice of description for someone with what sounded like a German accent. Frau was of the repeat-it-a-bit-more-forcibly school of arguments. The English are nothing if not determined. Frau's counterattack was to ask whether he was a MA or PhD student. Then she repeated his response, "MA" and imperceptibly dusted off her hands. So much for him. The next time I looked over, he was gone. The last half hour was filled with information that will probably result in what Lisa classifies as "Classes most likely to make my life miserable." I hope Shani took good notes. I was having another attack of the-chair-is-devouring-my-rear end.

Lisa refused another buffet. (Sacrificial lamb tonight.) We grabbed a cab for a couple of terrific hours out of the hotel with real food. We were to meet Susan at eight back at the hotel to map out the semester plan of attack/survival. The restaurant was great but slow. We were more than an hour late getting back. Susan had waited bravely in the bar. That woman is nothing if not heroic. She and Lisa had their own stories to tell of the 'other' research class--the one Shani and I probably should have attended. Lisa had had to eat her weight in peanut m & m's to stay awake. Susan, eager to succeed, had wanted information on the books required until Lisa in a chocolate-fueled frenzy, forcibly reminded her she'd ordered them two days ago. Despite Susan's stoic stand in the bar, it was clear I wasn't the only one contemplating the wall. We all began to laugh so hard we were crying--at least I think that's why the tears were rolling.

Day 4: Team building

It happens in so many ways. For me, it was finding Susan at breakfast, joined by Lisa, then Shani at community meeting. It was sitting with the whole group, listening to our common frustrations with research methodology and being glad for Gary's willingness to help. It was walking three miles to a restaurant that Amy's friend had told her about back in Miami and finding it was as good as promised. Maybe--and most emotionally charged for me-- it was finding out I had been Lisa's mom's nurse for a time.

I've had many people that I sat with in the darkest hours of their lives. Not all of them touched me as deeply as Ellen had. When Lisa and I figured out this odd piece of synchronicity, I found myself fighting back tears. When I met her mother, Ellen, it had only been a year since I sat with my dad on what my brother and I called the "night shift." (If you don't know the song by the Commodores, take some time to check it out.) Ellen was an amazing woman. She was full of the fight that I always admire in my heroes. She and I shared the night shift. We talked many times until dawn the way people do when they figure nobody else is listening. I remember the girls--heating up dinner for them sometimes. This afternoon I watch the sidewalk as Lisa and I walk and talk, hoping not to stumble, humbled by the way life circles on itself.

After dinner we catch a cab back to the hotel for an Org Systems team building evening. We all start with a little singing and end with a lot of laughing. I'm more than a little mystified by the connections that have brought me here and the camaraderie I've found. It's hard not to suspect some greater force at work. But whatever--tomorrow is another full day and in the big scheme of things, sleep will be required if I expect to parse the mysteries of it all.

Day 3: In which the learning begins

It's five a.m. which is the only time in these action-packed days that I have energy and restored balance to blog. (You can be the judge of the latter.)

Yesterday morning I dragged myself, headachy and exhausted, downstairs. My new friend Lisa was getting breakfast at the same time. She suggested we go to "Dream Table." Lest this sound like I am in one of those woowoo schools, remember that the majority of people here are psychology grad students, many in the clinical tract.

"Why not?" I thought. I hadn't really thought about dream analysis since I read that book by Freud in the eleventh grade. (Read it, yes. Understand it, no. It was during that energetic stage of life when I hoped to read every great book ever written, i.e. before the late sixties happened and I lost interest in academics for awhile.)

Here's how dream table works. Someone brings in a dream which they have written and copied for the rest of us. The dreamer reads it. The participants can ask questions about the dream but not about the personal life, history, etc. of the dreamer. Next they are invited to interpret the dream as "if it were my dream." That operative phrase is key. And yes, I avoided jumping in with my adolescent Freudian interpretation, in part because I was in a room full of Jungians but mostly because nobody seemed to care what the "official, correct" interpretation might be...only the interpretation one would make if one were thinking about it as if it were his/her own. The facilitator then gives an interpretation, the qualification here being that it is alternative to any other interpretation. The idea is that this opens even more possibilities for dreamer and participants. The dreamer responds to all these ideas, picking and choosing what she feels relevant. The participants are invited to comment. The dreamer reflects the entire experience. And on to the next. (If anybody is familiar with this process and I've left something out, let me know. It was my first time and I took no notes.)

The reason I am telling you this is not because I've switched concentrations. I think it's metaphorical of my experiences of the rest of the day. Although I am pretty sure there will be times when there is only one answer (someone else's great idea on the subject), I feel encouraged that many interpretations of what knowledge is are possible. It was the perfect way to begin and prepare for what followed...a four hour class on transformational learning. More about that later.

And for anybody on the edge of the cliff wondering if Sidney came home unscathed or went to jail (see day 2)? That turned out okay too.

Day 2: In which Andy makes some friends

For those of you who saw the picture from the corner of the room on Facebook, the title may come as a bit of a surprise. I don't know how it happened. One minute I was in social hell and the next I found my newbie tribe (and some very nice second year students, too). Lucky thing, too, because the bulk of the day was spent learning three different forms of internet record keeping/communication systems which, if you know me at all, requires exactly three times more technological ability than I have. Without a cohort of equally frustrated friends I might have had to resort to flailing around on the floor in hopes that someone would rush me from the room into a warm vat of chocolate. As it was, it was only a half of an "Expresso Escape"bar(60% cacao) and I managed to register for exactly one of the five classes I hope to be taking. Maybe tomorrow I can figure out how to register for the other four.

Somebody told me the registrar would automatically sign me up for the research classes (Introduction to PhD Research 1005 and Library Research). The automatic registration is a bit worrisome. Obviously not one of those voluntary courses with a waiting list. The one course I did manage to almost enroll in is called Humanistic Foundations of Organizational Systems. I'm sure I'll be writing about that more as I begin to understand what the title actually means. It does require at least three big textbooks so it may take me more than the next three days of "residential conference" for me to be able to fool you that I have solved the mystery. (Yes, I do feel like Scarecrow in Oz.) There's this other thing too-- Colloquium. It's new and it's on line. The nice people in IT spent the better part of an hour trying to show us how to use it but couldn't get an internet connection to last long enough. It's required of all new students. (Lucky me) Some of the old students made it clear they weren't going to play. (Really lucky them.) I have no idea what the purpose is, but I am always a little wary of things that are required "for my own good."

Enough about all of that. Tomorrow I have a class in transformational learning which may even transform me into a better blogger. For tonight I have a sixteen year old granddaughter out driving herself to a movie to meet with her friends so I'm very distracted. If I'm not smarter tomorrow, I hope to be at least relieved.

Oh, and if you are worried you are going to get over exposed, I think once the RC is over, you'll see a little less blogging and a lot more slogging. (I saw the syllabus for the one class and it reminded me of Kilimanjaro...step, breathe, step, breathe.)

Day 1: Orientation

Fuzzy headed and fearful, I dragged myself downstairs to see if I could figure out what I was supposed to be doing. It was a little after 8. No sign of Saybrook. (Our university meets in a hotel by the airport which is a little disorienting all by itself.) Breakfast seemed like a good idea and although the prices around here are enough to kill the appetite, I went for all kinds of things eating both from nervousness and trying to kill some time. "What if there is no PhD program?" I wondered. After breakfast I found a nice lady who said, "Are you with the MFT?"

"Saybrook," I muttered, wondering if the blackberries were stuck in my teeth.

"Yes, that's right. MFT?" she persisted.

I ran through my mental catalogue of acronyms and couldn't find one that fit.

"Sorry, I'm a little confused about the abbreviations," I apologized.

I discovered MFT stands for Marriage and Family Therapy and furthermore, my presence was not required until after one. I decided on a long walk. Maybe I could find a grocery store so I could afford to come back next semester.

Three miles later I had gotten a breathtaking view of water and airport. It has been a glorious sunny day in this part of California. My knees hurt but I felt semi-confident to handle the afternoon's activities.

We gathered in one of the hotel meeting rooms. There are a hundred and thirty-nine of us. (These are only the "new" students. The other five hundred or so will arrive tomorrow.)

The first thing I was handed was my transcript and an edited version of my writing sample. The handwritten note on the essay I'd sent said the following, "You address important issues through examining language--an interesting perspective. Your own prose is eloquent and precise (though wordy in places.) Once you've adopted APA style, you'll be well positioned to do Saybrook work." This was followed by a numerical graph that included bottom scores for unclear sentences and my evidence for my arguement. If you know me at all, you know I pride myself on my writing. (Okay Mary, I got the comment re: this blog, but it's a blog, for Pete's sake, not a critical essay.) Needless to say, all the insecurities of my youth resurfaced. They were redoubled when I sneaked a look at the young lady sitting next to me whose sample read "Excellent." She's twenty-two and just graduated from University in British Columbia.

Next we went around the room introducing ourselves. I hate this. I never know what to say. I always comfort myself by thinking everyone else is so busy worrying about their intro they aren't listening anyway.

But these fellow students? Clearly the girl sitting next to me wasn't the exception. They were all brilliant and funny, too. Most seem to be in the psych program in one form or another. I only counted five for the "organizational systems" PhD program. They didn't seem stupid either, but at least they weren't stunningly erudite.

After the mandatory (and for me, extremely painful) reception, we went to dinner. Food, it seems, is provided so I won't have to worry about the choice between starving or breaking the bank. I tried hard to make conversation with the people at my table, but the truth is, I'm old and not very interesting.

After dinner there was a lecture, "The Humanistic Tradition." Thank God I spent hours helping my granddaughter with her summer psych class. I'm not sure why we start with this except that Saybrook started out as a non-traditional psychotherapist training program. (Forgive me if I'm wrong here--I am new.) The lecture though was fascinating and as soon as I look up all the stuff I don't know, I'll recount the finer points. In the mean time, the lecturer teaches at Harvard and here and he pretty much knows everything and everybody. I don't mean that in a cynical way. He was/is brilliant in his lecture even if I have no idea who Gardner Murphy is.

So good night from San Francisco. I end the day much more fuzzy-headed, fearful, and in addition,the stupidest person at Saybrook.

The Journey Begins

You wanted to know why on earth I went back to school--even after asking my family to send me to a rehab program if I even suggested it? Three reasons. 1. (Truth time) I like the sound of "Doctor Andy." 2. Writing a book has been on my list since I was nine and this seems like a good way to make myself do it. 3. I really want to do something that might be useful for the non-profits I volunteer for.

Here's the thing. I've been criticizing the governing process for the boards I volunteer for and people are pretty tired of it. Who could blame them? After all, they are volunteering their time and usually their money too for these organizations and they don't need one of their peers whining about process and relevance. I'm hoping PhD school is going to force me into a study where I can offer more than cynicism--maybe some hope if not THE BIG BEST BOARD ANSWER. So here I am in San Francisco starting Saybrook University. I have no idea what to expect tomorrow when orientation begins. In fact, I have no idea about much of anything, including where I sign up. So stay tuned and I'll try to keep you posted.