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.