On shaky ground September 15, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Matters Yellow , trackbackThe older I get, the less I like standing up in front of people and performing. But last week I was doing just that.
I agreed to talk at a conference about organisational change communications. As last speaker of day one, I became increasingly more nervous as the day wore on. I compared myself (unfavourably of course) to every speaker who went before me. These were General Managers, Goverment CEOs, Directors and Managers. These were national and international organisations of thousands of staff, with publics in the tens of thousands. Way out of my league.
What had the organisers been thinking when they asked me to tell our simple story? All day, I tweaked my narrative, adding bits, taking bits off, giving it a different angle, only to change it again once another speaker finished their glamorous and interesting story. I had nothing! And I was about to be humiliated with mass walk-outs and dismissive smirks, I could see it happening right before my eyes.
With no alternative but to push ahead, I settled on a simple story from the heart, a few humorous annecdotes and some well-timed self-deprecating insights. I got through the talk, dry-mouth and all. Why I even made them laugh. So I guess it worked. People told me (as they always do when queuing up behind you at the drinks counter) that they enjoyed it. And that it was the sort of story people like to hear at these conferences. But even that didn’t make it better.
That night, in my room, I cried myself to sleep. Partly from stress relief, partly because I missed Bloke as he wasn’t there to comfort me, and partly because I’d drifted so far away from my own core beliefs and values that I felt a fraud. But what message would have helped me sleep soundly that night; and what would make me proud of using my gifts and talents to reach out to people again.
The Saturday before this conference I was getting my hair cut and coloured. And in the seat beside me was a woman whose 5 year old daughter was playing at her feet. For over an hour, this child amused herself with curlers and whetever other salon paraphenalia appealed. I watched with delight this creative, engaging, resilient, funny, affectionate, never-clingy, never-demanding, great kid.
I commented to the mother how impressed I was. The child’s “in your face” style reminded me of someone, and as I watched her it took sometime for me to realise that she reminded me of myself at that age. Like this child, I was always going up to strangers, talking to them, even sitting on their lap on the bus. It was a family joke, that I had no fear barometer and was too friendly for my own good.
As the similarities occured to me, in my mind’s eye, I fast-tracked this child’s life and informed the mother that she had “an actress on her hands.”, the mother laughingly agreed, and as if, on cue, the strangest thing then happened.
This child of 5 looked at me and asked if the baby in my tummy was ready to be born. I laughed and told her that there was no baby there – just fat. I looked down expecting to see the tell-tale roll of fat on show, but realised I was wrapped up in a salon tent-like sheath, covering me from neck to mid-calf. Without a pause, the child climbed under my hairdresser’s shroud, to curl up on my lap where she began to loudly whimper like a baby. With no other alternative - and in shock I guess- I patted this tiny form and coaxed a psychodramatic birthing. And with the precision timing that comes with a short term memory, a minute later this baby-child slid out from under the sheath, to land right at my feet.
I laughed at the time, and assured the nervous mother that it was all good fun, as it had been. But it’s only now, a week later, and following the insights I’d gleaned from the conference presentations, I realise this little guru had come with a message.
What landscape had I traversed since being 5 years old and how much had I forgotten of my true nature? Was it time to give birth to some reincarnated creativity? Re-kindle the first principles of my courageous nature. Could I remember the fun and drama of being 5? Would that be my message – to grab at those precious moments when they come and say yes! Now I’m not suggesting we sit on strangers’ laps to be born again in front of them, but for me, I needed just that.
I needed to remember the world is a comforting place not a frightening one. And the baby inside of me, that child who survived the most awful event of all, a mother’s death, can survive all sorts of mini-deaths and changes life produces. In front of an audience or not. It’s actually not about me, but about the messages I’ve learnt on the way.
‘So if we find our feet on firm or shaky ground, we just need to get out of the way . Only then will stuff start to happen. And despite us, people will hear the message they’re meant to hear and meet the teachers they’re meant to meet.
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