Progress and Results = ...?

I have never been a natural "turner", as we say in the dance community.  One of several important aspects of turning successfully is to spot, a technique in which the dancer rotates the body first and the head last. This allows the dancer to anchor him or herself to a direction, and prevents dizziness.  It's taken me considerable work to gain proficiency; in the process I've fallen out of turns, succumbed to severe bouts of nausea, the works.

But now, even as I am acutely aware of my shortcomings, I've discovered that I can execute multiple pirouettes (turns) with a much higher success rate than before.  Focusing on the basics is paying off; I see the results, I feel the results, and a feeling surges within me - I'm making progress!

How does 'making progress' happen in the office? The definition of progress can vary greatly depending on one's job function, obviously, but as a program manager in my current organization, I find I don't always know what this means.

When working on dance, on the base level of technique it's apparent when things aren't going well.  It feels terrible, both physically and mentally, because there's no fooling yourself if you're executing technique incorrectly.  Physics doesn't lie.  (This is not to say that there aren't subtle ways to cheat; that's another topic entirely - for the purposes of our current theme, let's assume that the dancer is conscious of clean technique.)

This in turn applies to making music.  It's not working if the sound that comes out doesn't align with what's on the page, or if the notes don't connect or the phrasing is broken due to poor fingering choices on the piano.  You can hear it, and you can feel it.

As in the office and in the arts, we are similarly driven by priorities and business needs - the choreographer wants to work on a Tibetan dance, and it's my job to study and learn how to internalize the traditional movements and culture of Tibet; the director of my organization at the office wants to launch X within 1 week, and my work as a program manager is cut out for me.

I suppose I could say that I'm making progress and seeing results when I'm nearing completion of my portion to make the launch of X possible.  But somehow, it doesn't feel like I'm gaining expertise - I've developed a strategy and labored away, but that's just it.  I'm making progress for the organization, but am I making progress for me?

That's the difference; when I work on executing a decent pirouette, learn how to shrug my shoulders with just the right insouciance for an Uighur ethnic dance, or finally master the intoxicatingly furious ending of Ravel's Valses Nobles et Sentimentales No. 1 on the piano, I know what I am internalizing.  I know when I am making progress, just as I know when I am not.  The results, or lack thereof, are clear.

This realization is startling, because this clarity contrasts deeply with my other life: I haven't figured out what it means to me to make progress at work.  Perhaps it's because I'm not operating at my forte, that I'm not in an environment or job function in which my path and growth flow innately and operate in harmony with the priorities and needs of the organization.

That leads to the greatest question: am I in the right place at all?  In my heart, I want to believe I'll instinctively know what it means to make progress when I've found work that truly means something to me.  I won't give up; I'll keep asking myself tough questions as I explore and find my way.

While I forge my path there, my labor at the dance studio and at the keys of my beautiful Steinway grand piano will remind me of the way it feels to find my way forward, naturally.  

I am Not a Robot

It's long been a point of pride for me that I can keep myself in check at all times: no matter what comes my way, what I show the world will be the picture of positive calm.  To do otherwise would be to show weakness.

At least that's what I learned in life so far, whether it was being admonished as a child if I showed any signs of unhappiness or contrariness, or quickly learning in the dance studio that one must work through all kinds of pain and frustration or risk getting nowhere fast.

I've been the recipient of gratitude more than a few times in dance rehearsals and meetings at work, as I was able to keep everyone working together in contentious situations. "How do you stay so even-keeled, Susan?" I'd get asked.

The truth: it isn't easy, especially when I'm keenly disappointed or frustrated about something.  I'm just so practiced that it comes unconsciously.  I think to myself, what can I do but to stay positive?  It admittedly exacts a toll deep within me, but I reason that it's worth it to maintain the harmony amongst those around me. I shouldn't bother them with my troubles.

Therefore, it came as a shock when I was told by a manager at the office that she thought my attitude seemed disingenuous.  That is a word that I don't associate with myself (who'd want that?).  "I don't know what's behind that smile," she went on to say. It turned out that to her, I came across as something like a robot, an automaton incapable of being affected by anything.  In striving so hard to stay motivated in an environment that has been a real challenge for me, my positive attitude made me suspicious.

It shook me to the core to see that my well-honed, punishing self control came not only at the expense of my own emotional and psychological well being, but hindered the development of a professional relationship.  Granted, this is but one (and to date, the only) significant feedback I've ever received on this topic so I will take it with a grain of salt. All the same, I felt betrayed. Betrayed by what I'd believed throughout my life, that to show anything less than shining would be a sure sign of weakness.

True to my nature, I'm moving on and doing my best to analyze and internalize learnings.  I now tell myself that it's okay to express displeasure or to show that things are not exactly sunny, if they aren't. I have to literally repeat this to myself because if I don't, my autopilot mode is to do exactly what I've practiced so carefully over the years - I can corral my own pain and spin things positively without a thought. It happens in the blink of an eye.

To illustrate: last week a senior manager I deeply respect asked me why I wasn't up for promotion this year. As I began to explain the circumstances, she interrupted me and exclaimed, "How can you be so positive about this?  You have to let it out sometime!  Be frustrated!"  Suddenly I realized, good heavens, I'm doing it again.  I hadn't allowed myself to acknowledge my own pain. At least I can identify this now. That's a first step.

I admit I don't exactly know how I will figure it all out, because I'm reassessing one of the major foundations of my understanding of interactions with myself and with others.  The silver lining is that it's dawned on me that by acknowledging my feelings and articulating them in the appropriate way -  rather than suppressing them and not conveying them to others - can I begin to truly accept myself. In refusing to accept all of me, I cannot bring my true self to those around me.

I envision my body opening, almost like a banana peel, and into the eternity of the blue sky and fluffy-white clouds of a Magritte painting. All parts of me are dispersing and merging into the universe that is me, however surreal, and I am accepting everything with the calm and surety of a brook flowing downstream.

This feeling is a start. It's hope.