Riding the Wave, or How Not to Puke at a Conference

About a month ago I participated in a conference in southern California. Conferences always give me the jitters. I'm the type of person whose confidence resides in writing, and not so much her public speaking. I get clammy and nervous, my joints stiffen and my muscles tighten. I have an not-so-flattering image of myself with hunched shoulders, shifty eyes, my voice stammering, and I fear the seriousness of my research will be lost in the awkwardness of my presentation. In the conference I attended last September, I actually rushed out to vomit as soon as it was over, and missed out on meeting a lot of semi-important people who may or may not have liked my ideas (I might never know).

This conference was particularly nerve-racking for me. The strike was in its twelfth week, and I hadn't actually finished the paper, but pulled together some tightly transitioned material in the few days leading up to my flight. Additionally, and also as a result of the strike, I had completely lost touch with my research, spare those few days preceding, and the passion I obtained from completing the research in November was nearly lost. A nice cocktail of natural tendency towards anxiety, plus a shot of horrid past experiences, topped off with more-than-a-dash of low self esteem was a mixture for academic disaster.

I spent the majority of the 5-hour plane ride trying to snap myself out of my perceived peril. I arrived at my hotel room and bounced on the bed for a few minutes, changed my clothes to accommodate the weather, and took a walk to clear my head.

Now, you'll probably be struck with envy after I describe the 30-degree temperatures, the vast blue skies and the tranquil ocean waves, but keep in mind I was on the verge of a breakdown because my presentation is now less than 24 hours away. And, no, the weather wasn't really helping my situation. My winter-hardened body was so used to below zero temperatures that I was sweating myself silly. I had conveniently forgotten sandals, so I was strolling down the boardwalk in super-stylish and tourist-identifying sneakers (I was saving my nice shoes for the conference). I could feel my skin burning from the sun, and then started worrying about how red and flaky my skin would be during my presentation, and how no one would pay attention to my words, just my flaky Canadian face, and my strange accent, and my sock tan line...

I pulled myself out of the self-loathing coma and found a nice spot on a short stone wall under a palm tree. Taking off my shoes to dig my toes in the sand, I began to really observe the surfers out on the beach. I'm no athlete, and I don't think I could ever bring myself standing upright on a surfboard, nevermind ride a wave. But in that moment, trying my best to stifle the lingering neuroses, the surfers intrigued me. It was not so much their athletic ability or endurance, but the way in which the riders embraced the ocean. Because the ocean is powerful, and unpredictable, and loves to toss and turn and push and pull. Staying balanced on a board requires skill, but I also saw how it necessitates that the rider be open to the ocean, and be able to accept the water as being an unmanageable force. Surfing is not so much about conquering the waves as it is about establishing a relationship with them; allowing your body to be strong to stay on the board, and flexible to move with the water, allowing the water to carry you.

I couldn't help putting this moment into a greater context, for in my efforts to control many parts of my life, I've had to face the realization that life is somewhat an unmanageable force. I can set the stage for myself--do the research, prepare the presentation, work to get the funding and put the effort forth by showing up and doing my best--but ultimately my strength won't be able to control the outcome of my presentation. I need to possess the flexibility, open-mindedness, or else life will toss and turn and push and pull and I'll fall off my board. And, perhaps more importantly, life is full of waves. If I can't stay on my board through this one, I'll just get right back on and ride the next one, until I can truly move with the water and take every wave in stride.

In spite of this enlightening and peaceful realization, I got up to the podium the next day with enormous armpit stains and stuttered my way through 30 minutes of speech, having made no improvement on the quality of my public speaking skills. But I didn't make a nauseating trip to the toilet, and I shook the hands of many listeners who seemed impressed. It must be true that we are our own worst critics.

I will not forget the surfers, and I will always remain aware of the ocean that is life, and the board I've built for myself.

If you remember to stay strong and open, your waves will carry you in the right direction.

In Solidarity,
Michelle
First Year PSN Volunteer