I was nominated to take part in leadership development training at my latest gig. Apparently it’s the kind of class that you can only be nominated for, you can’t just sign up on your own. I guess I should be proud or pleased, but I was nominated by my supervisor and my relationship and perception of her is an entirely separate post which may never happen.
So, it’s a three week course, spread out over three months. At the very beginning and then again at the end, we were treated to sessions led by the former dean of the program, a lifelong learner and leadership expert; basically a first-class professional thinker. The man reference Latin roots of words so often that it was absolutely no surprise when he revealed that his bachelor’s was in Latin (which I actually said out loud). The good doctor took self-examination to a level heretofore unexplored by pretty much everyone in the class. I think the responses to the in-class exercises he required of us ranged from my “no judgement ’til I’m sure” approach to “I did NOT come here for therapy” responses, and that was just in my group of five alone.
One of the writing assignment exercises he asked of us for the final week was to read a particular leadership book and then write a response according to the questions he put forth. The book, which I shall not name here, was in my opinion mostly middle-aged white guy drivel. I was not alone in my assessment of such and because I recognized the good doctor as the receptive thinker he was, I had no problem saying as much in class when he asked for our thoughts on the book. Part of this story involves me sharing the essay, so here it is, in its entirety.
I admit that for much of my life, I have been something of a navel-gazer. I have kept journals in which I apparently talk to myself since I was twelve years old. When the author wrote about retreat attendees taking copious notes and entreating them to speak to themselves, I realized that I have been doing this for years. I took a class required during my freshman or sophomore year in college called “Western Tradition”, basically a western civilization survey. At this small, rural school, instead of the usual block of core courses, everyone in the entire year was required to take the same class divided into sections taught by nearly every professor with meetings of the entire class happening monthly. I was assigned to one of the literature professors the first semester and he asked that we keep a journal in which to jot down thoughts, comments or questions that we might have as we plowed through our daily reading assignments. He would then collect them weekly, peruse them, assess their content via written comments, then return them to us. Other students agonized over this activity. What to say? How to say it? How much to say? Am I just taking notes on content or…? But for me, as soon as I heard the words “keep a journal”, I was immediately drawn to it. I kept those notebooks, and every time I rediscover them, I am thoroughly entertained and eternally grateful to my professor Dr. P for giving us the opportunity to tell him who we were and to show us ourselves.
As we progressed through each week, we began a dialogue. I would ask questions about what I had read and then answer my own questions as I forged ahead in the text. I would question the writing style of the text’s authors. My entries were short and contained snippets of wit, sarcasm and curiosity, all delivered with an extraordinary amount of chutzpah for teenager. And he encouraged me in his notes. From the very first page: “Okay, you’ve the general idea-speculate on your own a little. You are perceptive and read critically.” I think I may have been the only student losing my mind laughing as I read his comments upon the return of our journals each week, especially this entry:
Thursday 10-27 pp455-62: How’d the scientists of the time obtain corpses to study? Without getting busted? Dr. P: nefariously. Sometimes they did them in the hospital where the deceased (w/out kin) had just passed away. Otherwise, it was just anything they could dig up.
It was as if someone had invaded my mind and was happy with what he found there.
So I’ve never stopped. Ceaselessly, I converse with myself and as I’ve aged, I try to listen with a more attuned ear than ever. Even now, I only know a few things to be true about myself and what my purpose might be. I strive to learn. I can never know enough. As long as I’m alive, I remain open to finding new balance in my life, beliefs and values. In turn, I can’t deny that I have a strong affinity for sharing what I have learned with those around me if they believe that they might benefit from it. A certain percentage of the time, I share in a traditional sense, answering questions, giving my opinion, etc. But the rest of the time, I simply tell my stories by living. There have been times when I have discovered that I shared a lesson with someone long after the actual contact we might have had, and that knowledge becomes a lesson to me as well. Someone is always watching and usually, that someone is me.
So what season am I in currently? I honestly didn’t know until I arrived at this point in the essay, but now? I’d say early spring, definitely. I’m fairly certain there are riots of renewal breathing faintly under the muck and wreck of the melting ice and snow. I know from wrecking muck, having spent 6 years braving Michigan’s wilds. But oh, when the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it delicate color arrived, it made the wait seem worth it.
Now, when I finished this in the wee hours, I knew exactly what I’d done. I’d responded to the assignment to the letter, but I hadn’t really told him anything about myself, nothing truly personal. And I’ll be damned if he didn’t call me on it. To wit:
Thank you for your essay. Self reflection is something you do on a regular basis through journaling. I was intrigued by your last paragraph and wondered what are some of things you have learned from the experiences and questions you have asked yourself in your journal. You don’t share with the reader any part of your “story,” except for your freshman college experience and the influence Professor P had on you. Your “story” and how you frame and re-frame it is “who you are.” To me, at least, leadership emerges out of people’s life stories. That is where the purpose of our leadership and the passion with which we pursue that purpose comes from. Is that true for you?
He engaged me in conversation about in class the next day and I confirmed that I had indeed attempted to evade capture, which he found mirthful. I’ve been thinking on it for the past while since the class ended, ruminating that I don’t journal with anywhere near the frequency I once did, either privately or publicly and what I came up with was this: I don’t talk to myself anymore. I’ve been journaling since I was 12; I still have my tiny diary from when I was 15. I transitioned from longhand to word processor in the mid- to late 90′s. I have a box of class notebooks from undergrad and grad school that I can’t toss because almost without fail there will be pages with me talking to myself in them.
I think I need to start the conversation again.
