Kicking the Bucket: How I do training

I was walking by our local middle school a few weeks ago and noticed the sign out front.  It said: "Education is not the filling of a bucket, but the lighting of a fire."  I guess they mean that school is less about obtaining knowledge and more about inspiring minds to learn.  At first I really thought that sounded great.  Then I decided I did not fully agree: certainly when I send my child to school I want him to have some energy and spirit about him--but I also really hope he learns how to multiply numbers, the history and heroes of the civil rights movement, and what makes the earth go around and around. 

Part of my job as a consultant is to provide training to staff and volunteers who work in the field of human services.  When people attend a workshop that I do, I want three things to happen.  And seeing that sign at my old middle school just gave me some fun ways of talking about it:

Fill the bucket:  No one should pay me money or attention if they attend one of my workshops and walk away knowing nothing more or different than before.  Generally people come into a particular training thinking of a set of concepts or skills they want to know (the bucket) and hoping that when they leave, they'll know them (fill it).  How do I create a strengths-based service plan for a family in this much trouble?  How can I help a family identify their own informal resources when they've burned so many bridges?  How do I supervise my staff in a way that supports the systems of care principles?  What does a good outcome report look like? 

Light the fire:  This is sometimes difficult to do when the participants are tired, under-appreciated social workers who, after the training, will return to a mile-high pile of paperwork on their desk that includes some of the worst stories of  child abuse and neglect you'll ever hear.  But doing that work better means having the energy and the spark to go back and think differently about it.  I have been to many a training where I was inspired while I was in the room and then all the steam ran out as soon as I got back to my car.  Which brings me to my third goal...

Stock up on tools:  This is an over-used figure of speech, this filling of the toolbox.  It makes sense, though.  I can know how to plant a garden, be inspired and motivated to plant a garden, but if I don't have a shovel, tiller, gloves and some seeds, then I won't get very far.  I want to give people the tools they need to sustain what they learn (the bucket) and their interest (the fire), helping them actually do what they're hearing about in the lecture hall or conference room.  I want to go with them after the training and work alongside them to help make it real every day.  I want the full bucket and the lit fire to linger in real life. 

 A bucket, a fire, a set of tools.  Training, anyone?

 

 

Hills are always hard: supporting families in the work.

I have been running more these days. I create these little routes through Bedford and memorize the path as I run it: BPC parking lot to Bridge St. to Peaks St., right on Whitfield, through hospital lot, right on Oakwood, right on Longwood, left on North, etc. When I’m running I hope that people who drive by in their air-conditioned cars will see what a great human being I am for exercising early in the morning on a rainy day. (I also speed up a little and pretend it isn’t hard as they drive by.) Then, after the run, I go back over the course with my car to see how far I went that time.

Some insights come up as I run--insights I'll use in a book or workshop or training some day. For now, I will summarize some of my thoughts into five running principles that I think are useful in human services work too:

1. I work on my form when the trail is flat and easy. Good form for me means I'm relaxed, my shoulders are down and not tense, my feet softly hit the pavement, my breath is rhythmic--1 more breath out than in so my strong breath hits on a different leg each time, my arms are low and loose, pushing through but not in a forced way. It is a waste of time to try to work on form when I'm going up a steep hill in the rain with one of my shoes untied. Which brings me to #2:

2. While my basic movements are the same for the duration of the run, my form and pace are altered by my environment. Pick up one foot, the other, swing the arms, breathe in, breathe out, look ahead. That's all the same. When it's raining, I keep my head lower. When it's down-hill, I sit back a little and shorten my stride. When it's up-hill, I lean forward and remember to let my arms help boost me up. When it's flat, I'm loose and rhythmic and readjust everything. If I'm ever chased by some sort of axe murderer, I'm sure my form would be wildly different.

3. Hills are always hard. There is a particular hill that I keep encountering every time I run. I have run it over and over and over. I never walk it. I refuse to walk it. It's long and steep and I always run it. (Some of this is about me being a determined person, some of it is about vanity--I certainly don't want someone driving by while I’m walking up the hill.) There are some things in life that get easier the more you practice: skateboarding, shooting a foul shot, playing the drums on Rockband for Playstation3, remembering the words to a poem. But this hill is always hard. It's not just hard going up--it's also hard when I finish. I struggle for a few minutes after I'm done every time. Maybe after I run that hill for another month it will not be so bad--but it will always be a hill and hills are always harder than flats.

4. Others don't know where I've been (or where I've yet to go). There's this loop of sidewalk in Bedford that is 2.8 miles long. This Sunday I ran about 2 miles before I got to the loop and then ran another couple of miles after it. As I was finishing it up, I met a man I used to work with--a 60-something attorney for social services, now retired. He looked very fresh and swift. I looked…well, not fresh and swift. Without looking in a mirror I knew that my hair was disheveled, my face was red as a beet, and my shirt soaked through. I’m sure he thought I was weak for looking this tired after just running a little bit. But he did not know where I began or how far I had come. He could only see my sweaty, tired self and think that he might outrun someone 30 years younger.

5. It's worth doing: For the air, for the movement, for the sweat that leaves my body, for the strength that is building in my legs, for the calm that comes from rhythmic breathing, and for the moments in my car afterwards when I see how far I went that time.

These concepts are good reminders of how we might approach our work in human services with clients who are struggling in front of others who do not know where they've been or how far they have run. How many times have they had to run up that same hill that does not get easier? How many times have we tried to make them change--right in the middle of something so difficult? Do we recognize that the way they look now may not be the way they are when parts of their life are different--and that some of those parts are outside their control? We’d do well to remember that their path is worth the running, that their work won't be wasted and that it is in fact their work, not ours, that gets them safely to the finish line.