Nothing, Something, Everything

Nothing, Something, Everything

John Paul Derryberry

The box gave me 400 words to type out what someone would learn from attending a session of mine. A state-wide professional conference, on social work for people with disabilities, had invited me to speak to their group. I filled out the entire questionnaire. I chuckled at the question, "what presentation material do you need?" My answer is always the same, a microphone and get the heck out of my way, which is always greeted with, you really do not need anything else? I finally returned to the skipped 400-word box. I blinked three times and thought about what I would type if I could answer this honestly. 

I want to write that they might learn nothing. The assumption that I offer an attendee knowledge they do not already possess is very odd. I'm attending a conference for professionals. They already have obtained a lot of expertise. They might use this conference to catch up with old friends in the area and hope I finish early. Full disclosure, I am okay with that; catching up is healthy, sometimes healthier than what is discussed in the meeting room. They might have more knowledge than me on the subject but decided not to present. 

I want to write that maybe the attendees will learn something, but I don't know if that's the most important thing. Perhaps the more important part of conferences is reconnecting with the core reasons we got into the field; by remembering the passion, to reignite that belief, I can change the world for the better. But unfortunately, the world is excellent at reminding us of our limitations, often beating us down and giving up hope. So maybe it's important to remind folks you might get something out of this, or you might not. Both are okay outcomes, but I hope I leave you feeling better about life. 

I want to write that maybe they will learn something, but I don't know the individuals in attendance well enough to say what that would be. I have a general idea of what I'm trying to accomplish when I present. But it must be open-ended enough for the learners to impact our direction. Out of the hundreds of talks I have done, the best ones are the ones that have taken a wild turn and ended up somewhere I didn't expect. I grew, they grew, and we rode the storytelling wave to a conclusion no one saw coming. 

Trust me; I get what the conference organizers are doing. They have to ensure there are learning objectives, and many people thirst for knowledge. Yet buttoning everything up feels so polar opposite of real life, so lacking in the emotional department. And, if we fail to move people emotionally, we fail to carry them anywhere. No one, I repeat no one, proclaims their love for another human being by doing an emotional math equation. Instead, we write poems and stories about how they made us feel, and how they gave us permission to find ourselves. They moved us into the field of joy where we noticed nothing but them. 

I took a deep breath and sadly filled out the 400-word box on professional learning objectives, professionally. I almost threw up while typing. I secretly hope they pick me to present. I will do what I always do, not mention any learning objectives during my presentation and tell my stories. Then sit back and let the audience decide where we should take the discussion and what they should take home from their time with me. I can't bring myself to do it any other way. It's the acknowledgment to my audience, I don't have all the answers- no one does. They have permission to glean what they need from me: something, everything, or nothing. I only know that curiosity and interaction are the best places to be in life, no matter where anyone finds themselves.