Better Than Busy

A few weeks ago a colleague at work stopped me during my lunch break to thank me for the contributions I make to our workplace. It was a nice moment. It is always nice to receive simple, honest validation from someone who understands and appreciates what you do. Still, I am a little bit haunted by the way he phrased the compliment. “Man, you are the busiest guy I know. You are everywhere doing everything.” Those words, simple and specific, sat on top of my own observation that, more often than not, my own team had started to apologize before talking to me. I started hearing things like “I’m sorry to bother you” and “I know you probably don’t have time for this right now” and “Its important but it can wait if you need.” This is code for, you’ve got yourself buried behind a barricade of work. We know you’re in there and just want to acknowledge that we can still see you.”

I used to admire super-busy people as exemplars of drive, ambition and stamina. Now that I have become one of those people, I feel a bit sorry for us. I can’t help thinking that extreme busyness is a symptom of some larger disorder. That busy people aren’t necessarily more productive, and that many of us are just incapable of proper prioritization or effective delegation.

I like to be busy. I like to work hard. I like to push my limits and practice with stamina and determination. These are virtues. Still, I can’t help feeling as if I have fallen into the busyness trap, substituting energy and effort for clear, specific results. I am reading Jim Collin’s Good to Great and working again with the idea of a Stop Doing List, an exercise in clarity by cutting away at things that don’t really need or deserve my attention.

I am also working with the idea that 21st century leaders, above all else, will be rewarded for their ability to bring clarity of focus to the people on their team. Helping others find and sustain clarity of focus requires strong relationships. Clarity of focus gets developed and shaped over time. This kind of leadership only happens when the leader slows down, models relentless discipline of focus and helps the team connect to their own purpose, their own intention and their own drive. This is the kind of leader I aspire to become. I don’t want to keep being the guy who is everywhere doing everything. I want to be the guy who connects everyone to what needs doing. This kind of  leader is still a busy person, but the pace is controlled, the focus is clear and everyone travels together. That’s a better way to be.

New Neighbors

When you move into a new neighborhood, it takes time to meet the new neighbors. There is so much to be done in such a short span of time — a tornadic frenzy of boxes and furniture and such to be moved and unpacked and put into places. You meet the neighbors a little bit at a time and practice remembering their names. Someday soon these people can be your friends. But it takes times to meet them all and get to know them.

And then, one night, as soon as possible, you set up your modem, plug in your router and try to establish an internet beachhead in your new home. Things don’t go as planned. There are issues and complications to be worked through.

But as soon as your router comes to life, it casts its net across the neighborhood, scans the entire block for signals in range. Before you meet Tom and Joy and Steve and Nancy and Jeff and Melissa, you meet their wireless networks. You meet beersnob and thisisnotyourwifi and Peggyswireless2. You play a kind of matching game with yourself putting the wifi name with the house. And you wonder to yourself what these new neighbors are thinking when they see jedifunknet show up on their network list. For them, there is no guesswork. Jedifunknet arrived with the big yellow moving truck.

After two weeks, we are beginning to meet our new neighbors, collect phone numbers, host children. No doubt we will settle in quickly. Soon enough, jedifunknet will be a regular member of network community.

The Belly of the Beast

I drove home yesterday through the worst weather I have ever experienced. I left my office in Harriman, TN just a few minutes after 5pm, hoping to get ahead of the gathering gloom of storm clouds. Five minutes later, the sky split open and chaos spilled out.

The traffic on I-40 East slowed to 40 then 30 then 20 miles per hour as walls of rain fell with punishing force. 5pm in June is supposed to be daylight but the sky was a formless, abysmal gray. Driving along the corridor of the interstate, visibility narrowed into a long, gray flannel sleeve. The wind pressed in from both sides. Leaves flew from the trees in a spew of black, jagged bird-like shadows, circling my car from all directions. And then I noticed the wind was pressing the trees in from both sides of the interstate, reaching in with gnarled, nasty arms grasping blindly for whatever hapless traveler they could snarl.

Slowing to 25 miles per hour, I tried to comprehend the physics of the moment, to have wind pressing in toward you from all directions. And then, I realized I was traveling inside a swirl of leaves, branches and water.

The drive was careful and tedious. My hands clutched the steering wheel, fingers gripped to keep my car level on the road. The wind pushed me to the left then to the right. Puddles leapt up like fountains. Lighting ripped the air.

And yet, everything was quiet. I expected a torrent of sound, the brash locomotive wheeze of a train engine, the gale force banshee screech that is sometimes the last sound on earth. I heard none of it. I can’t swear it wasn’t happening. I may have been so totally focused on the road that my brain didn’t process the sound of it all.

I drove on in this slow, careful way for about 10 miles and then, exiting the interstate, found myself quite suddenly outside from the belly of the beast.

I made my way home carefully, still hindered by heavy rain and standing water. Even at slow speed, my tires left the road several times.

When I got into town, my city was littered with broken, twisted tree trunks, fallen branches, dangling power lines. Power was out in areas all across town.

It was quite simply the most intense, fascinating weather experience I have ever had.

My mom called earlier this evening to let me know that the weather service had officially registered a class F-0 tornado in the area I was driving yesterday.

Turns out, I drove straight through a mild tornado without realizing. This writing doesn’t capture how utterly strange and fascinating the entire experience was. I’m glad I didn’t realize I was driving through a tornado because on the stretch of road I was driving there is no good place to hide.

Now that it is over and, to an extent while it was happening, my reaction was split between a vague disquiet and complete fascination. I drove through the belly of the beast. I am grateful the beast was small and relatively tame. No one got hurt and I got to experience something I never thought I would get to see.

Poem About Grief

Note: I want to share this thing with you. Not because it is finished but because it needs to be outside of me. It came to me very quickly. A few words a few days ago. A sentence last night. A phrase when I woke up this morning.

I ate my breakfast. I drank my coffee. I took my daughter to school.

It was waiting for me when I found my chair. It is better, I think, for it to be on the outside of me. What I mean to say is this: I wrote this, then went for a run with a friend and, when I came back to it, it seemed more beautiful than scary.

***

Grief is the subterranean monster that has been waiting with inexorable hunger since your childhood. She is the unseen creature lurking just beneath the surface, reaching up for you with her impossibly long arms to drag you into her silent kingdom of earthworms, clattering bugs and other blind, scurrying things.

Grief is the shape inside the shadow standing in the corner of your room. That faceless familiar form, seeming so much like a person with no name. The thing tucked in that corner of the closet which reminds you somehow of an open mouth, not speaking, not moving. Preternaturally still. Patient as thunder.

It is the moment you first notice the rusty hinge of heaven and how, once seen,  you cannot unsee it ever again. How precarious the sky hangs there above your head now, no longer floating. Now pressing downward and how you realize for the first time that the sky has been falling your entire life. You just never took the time to notice. And now, there is no escape from it. The sky which has always been falling and your life which gets smaller with each passing moment.

And now how your life seems like a hallway with only one door. A long hallway, perhaps, but one that narrows and slopes slightly as you slip constantly forward, tripping toward that one single door waiting for you at the end. That door is slightly open. It stands ajar as you move closer and closer until, one day, which will be a complete surprise to you, you will stand with your hand on that door’s knob.

And now grief is like a closet overfilled with all the things you packed away, the useless things that had no place in the moment but which are now tumbling out and toppling over you. Forcing you to deal with each and every misplaced thing. How they break and bruise you and they bury you in this endless avalanche of things you thought you had forgotten, things you had set aside, things you not wanted to remember.

And now grief is sitting with you underneath a small tree on a very small hill, trembling like a leaf on a branch on that very small tree. And how you will call it meditation. Or you will call it mindfulness. Or you will call it prayer.

But it is really just you and your grief waiting for something to happen. Something different. Something without precedent.

And the sun rises. And the sun sets as it always has. And there are creatures moving underneath you, stirring in the dirt. And there are shapes inside all the shadows that lengthen and shrink as the days roll by. And the sky closer to you now that it has ever been.  And you notice how the bright traffic of clouds once so unremarkable now restlessly rearrange themselves like the furniture of your life. And how, even with your eyes closed, you can feel the stretch of that long, one door hallway as it swallows you down into mystery, deep into surprise.

And how, when you open that final doorway, all the things come down on you.

And now you understand your whole life has been a practice with gravity. The trick of holding things down. Keeping things where they belong. And now everything is floating. Everything is drifting. And you are working, once again, with groundlessness, except this time you are working with sorrow. You are working to save your life.

My Nerd Quest for an Automated Daily Journal

Be warned! This post is about to get really nerdy. If you know me and have built a mental model of me as a cool, relaxed, not-at-all nerdy person, you should stop reading. This post is going to ruin things for both of us.

I like to keep track of things. I like to make lists of things that don’t matter much to most people. I make lists of the books I read. I manage lists that count the number of times I have listened to songs in music library. I actually track the number of tweets I send each month along with the number of followers and people I follow because you can create interesting ratio games with that information.

I also like to keep track of how I spend my time. Ever since I was 8, I’ve had this idea that my future biographers (Don’t laugh. It could happen.) would need an accurate accounting of my life to use as raw data for their analysis of my accomplishments and how daily events correlate to my creative success.

I’m not talking about a diary or journal. I have one of those. I’m talking about an accurate, daily accountant-style ledger of what I did with my day. It isn’t a narrative of thoughts, ideas or insights. It is a list of things I did, places I went and when I did them. The details aren’t very exciting. I do pretty much the same stuff every day. But I love to look back at what I was doing one, two or more years ago on this very day and see what memories are sparked or how events compare. More often than not, I find that the events are very similar and that my life is more or less locked into a pattern of routine places and things. I often look back to find that I ate at the same restaurant, shopped at the same store or did the same errands exactly one year before and one year before that. That kind of redundancy is both reassuring and frightening.

I used to keep all this in paper records. I had a notebook and kept my daily log on lined notebook paper, filling in the progression of daily details from memory at the end of each day. The paper log was limited because it grew unwieldy and was very difficult to search. As the log grew, it took more and more time to page through to visit the past. Worse, my memory was imperfect and I found myself skipping details on entries or getting things out of order. I knew I needed to automate.

I wanted a daily event log that I could carry with me and update in real time with automatic time stamps securely affixed to each event.

Enter Momento. Momento is an iPhone app that allows quick, easy entries of short moments as you move through the day. The daily view allows easy editing with a calendar view for quick time travel possibilities. Momento integrates with Facebook, Twitter, Foursquare and other RSS feeds (like this blog) so I could keep a record of all my post activities along with my daily events. I kept up with this for a few months in late 2012/early 2013 and then stopped because I didn’t like the redundancy of getting the same posts from mutliple social sites and also didn’t particularly care about link posts. I just wanted to sync original posts that somehow documented my state of mind at a time.

A few weeks ago, I tried Kennedy, another iPhone app, which lets you post easily by tapping the screen and making an entry. Text you add is supplemented by location, weather and a headline from the national and world news. The developers are striving for a tool that ties personal experience to larger world news to create a richer context. The name comes from the famous question, “Where were you when you found out Kennedy was shot?” The problem with the Kennedy app  became readily apparent. The app is very easy to update but gives you entries like: “”Grey evening in Oak Ridge. Dinner at Aubrey’s. Four dead in Manila airport shooting” or “Drizzley afternoon in Oak Ridge. Christmas party with cousins. Turkish ministers’ son charged.”

Every update felt weird and super depressing. I moved on to Heyday.

Heyday is a location-based journal iPhone app that uses GPS to automatically tag every location at which you stop. You can add entries directly. The app also sweeps up pictures from your camera roll and organizes them into an interesting collage of daily images to supplement the text and geotag entries. It is a good concept but failed quickly. The constant GPS ran down my battery. I felt like my phone was spying on me and, worse, not spying very well. When I stopped at a red light for a full minute, it registered a visit to The Sun Tan Shop. The false tags would be humorous years from now. I’m sure but my future biographers would be perplexed by my suddenly erratic and eclectic habits.

I’m back to Momento. I use Foursquare to check-in and just ignore the duplicate posts from other social platforms. You can filter those out, anyway.

Okay. So there it is. I’m a nerd. I keep detailed records of things nobody cares about and I stress out about the best way to get it done, keep it accurate and make it searchable.

I feel like I’m in good company. After all, isn’t this what Captain Jean-Luc Picard does at the end of each Star Trek: Next Generation episode? Actually, that’s pretty much what I’m after. A voice recorder that transcribes my life for the future benefit of star fleet. There are surely mysteries that can be solved, interstellar crises averted, if only future generations have access to the tremendously dull, repetitive data of my everyday life.

It isn’t a journal. Its a daily inventory of people, places and things. So, I”m wondering, does anybody else keep a daily account like this? Am I really that weird? I mean, I can’t be that weird. People are developing apps for this. That makes me pretty much normal. This is pretty normal behavior. Right?

The Things We All Fear

I have a fascination with those things we all fear. I’ve written a bit about zombies and my suspicion that their place in the current zietgiest describes a kind of existential dread somehow related to our discomfort with our transhuman, technologically-drenched future. I’m not alone.

There are other people interested in these same ideas. They are more eloquent and more studied on the topic. One such person is Dan Engber, who became fascinated by the fear inspired by quicksand in the 1960s. He noticed that kids today aren’t really worried about quicksand the way they were a few years ago. It doesn’t show up in their games the way it did when he was a kid. He wondered where that fear went. Why did people stop being afraid?

Engber did a study of twentieth century films and discovered a sharp rise in the depiction of quicksand during the 1950s and 1960s. Radiolab does a great podcast with Engber, in which he speculates that rampant fear of quicksand corresponds to a distrust of exotic cultures and terrain in an age of extreme exploration and globalization. This fear became a metaphor for how people thought about the war in Vietnam. In short, the fear of quicksand represented a distrust about involvement in far away places and then became a controlling metaphor that shaped thought about that very involvement. If this interests you at all, you should give the podcast a listen. It is worth the 16 minutes.

I admire Engber and the way he conducted his exploration of the quicksand trope through twentieth century culture. This kind of study is fascinating and really, really useful. I’m interested in finding other studies that work along these lines. Links or citations are appreciated.

Fear is both an intensely personal experience and a culturally-defined expression. Fear is primal. It is also communal. The literatures of dread — horror films and stories — may not be meaningless drivel after all. A thoughtful mining of the nightmares we share with one another may give us our best look at ourselves, what we value, what we abhor and where we are headed as a species.

I know the zombie genre could keep researchers busy for a long time. What other cultural fears could we explore to find clues about ourselves?

Funny in My Head (Flash Fiction)

Another piece of flash fiction. A fragment of something I’ve been working over in my head recently. I am listening to Robert Plant’s “Funny in My Mind (I Believe I’m Fixin’ to Die)”.

***

There are things I want to tell you. Things I need you to know.

I haven’t always been this way. I used to be happy. I used to walk around in the daylight. I used to be around people. I used to smile and laugh and tell jokes. I kissed boys. I drank lemonades. I went to school and church and the grocery store. I listened to music. I watched TV. I read books. I slept in the nighttime and woke, fresh and frisky, in the morning ready to meet the world and answer whatever the day required of me.

That was before the dreaming captured me. That was before I drowned in the tumult of my own feverish imaginings. Before the Long Sleep, I was a girl just like you. I was impetuous, impatient and eager. I was awake and alive and filled with enthusiasm.

And now I am something altogether different. I am caught in perpetual sleep, left to boil in the hot, bitter stew of my dreams.

You will not believe the things I have seen in my dreaming. The places I have been. There is so much I want to tell you. So much possibility just beneath the surface of things.

I can hear stumbling around the house, trying to keep things going – the bills, the dishes, the laundry. I hear you out there taking care of daily business, making sure I eat and drink. The hundred thousand phone calls to doctors. The knocks at the door from concerned neighbors, which are already much less frequent than they used to be.

I can hear you out there, taking care of me. You are a good daughter. Doing the things that need doing because there is no other choice. I hear you stumbling, knocking into things. I hear the cursing, the frustrated sighs. I hear the sharp pinch of anger when you speak to my body. I hear the resignation, the unfairness.

Sometimes, I wonder which of us is trapped in the dreaming. I am lying here and traveling, constantly traveling, but a part of me is always with you, listening to the shuffling sound of your steps. The color has gone out of your life. You are a somnambulist, a sleepwalker, shuffling through your day and I realize you are captured too. You are caught inside a life that is not your own. And you are frantic and frightened and afraid you might never escape.

You are a good daughter. There is so much I want to tell you. I wish you could see the things I see. Such beauty. Exquisite. Sometimes painful. The terrible beauty inside this perpetual dream.

You Don’t Need Permission: Why iPads in the Classroom Makes So Much Sense

My mom-in-law is a smart person. She writes safety procedures for the Department of Energy. When she got her first iPhone a few years ago, she was excited to see what all it could do. She asked for the manual and looked a bit upset when I told her there wasn’t one. “How will I know how to use it?” she asked. My quick advice, “Just play with it.”

That was a few years ago. We’ve had a few conversations about how Facebook works on the phone, how to post pictures and how to connect to her home wifi. For the most part, I have let her struggle alone with the incredible technology riding in her purse.

Last week, we both upgraded phones to the 5c. Before visiting the store, I suggested we back up her phone to her computer. Silence. Just sync it to iTunes. More silence. I realized she had never backup her phone. That’s when I felt the full weight of my benign neglect.

We backed up her phone and went to the store to get the new phones. Everything went smoothly. Our phones were given to us in those small, shapely plastic boxes. They were activated by the sales rep. We were ready to go.

She looked worried. “Where’s the manual?”

That question again.

“There isn’t one,” I told her. “Just play with it. We can go online if we have specific questions.”

“Oh,” I realized, once again, it wasn’t really an adequate answer.

This isn’t an indictment of my mom-in-law. I told you she is smart. Way smarter than I am. She breaks down out incredibly complex problems for a living.

The story isn’t about intelligence. It is about expectation.

My mom-in-law belongs to a generation that has experienced technology as something that is unnecessarily complicated, expensive and requires specialized training. In the past, new technology always came with a manual. New technology in the workplace came with months of specialized training by experts with advanced knowledge of the system, the proper use and lots of stern warnings about how to avoid the deadly key combinations that will “crash the system”, resulting in lost time, lost productivity and loss of face. New technology required certification before it could be used.

I am thinking about her experiences because I am helping connect the faculty at my college with iPads. The faculty at my college are great teachers. Some are the same generation as my mom-in-law. Some are older. Some are younger.

We will be doing lots of training in the months ahead to make sure everybody is comfortable with the capabilities of their iPad and thinking creatively about how they want to use the iPad in their classrooms.

Training is essential to be sure the technology is useful and used.

But mobile technology is different, We did our first iPad 101 session for brand new iPad users a few days ago. We started with the guided tour of iPad buttons, settings, and functions but quickly realized that no one was following along. They had new devices in their hands and needed to know how to connect to the wireless, how to set up their Apple ID, how to navigate the Settings menu before anything else made sense. Our session quickly shifted into one-on-one conversations about buttons, settings and passwords. It was a lot of fun. All three presenters were busy shuffling around the room, triaging worried expressions or sighs of frustration. The busyness was punctuated by cries of celebration. I did it! It worked!

Even better, as the morning went on, first time iPad users started helping other first time iPad users figure things out. The trainees were also the trainers. The room was busy, noisy and fun. I couldn’t help feeling like I was seeing a glimpse into our future classrooms.

I was struck very suddenly by something I have known all along. The best way to teach a person something new is to let them try something new. People learn best by doing new things. All people. All ages. No exceptions.

I am excited about the potential for using new technologies, like iPads, in the classrooms at my college. I don’t care so much about the specific technology. I’m after helping our faculty have that feeling that comes from personal discovery. The fun of figuring out something new. The joy of sharing new learning with someone else.

So, here’s the thing: training is still essential, but we no longer need to wait for the training to start figuring things out. We don’t have to wait for an expert to tell us how things work. We don’t need certificates to demonstrate that we are ready.

There are no trainers. There are no experts. We don’t need to wait for permission.

Try things. Share what works. Ask about things that don’t work. This is how people learn. This is our noisy, busy, fun classroom.

Ready. Set. Go.

By the way, don’t worry about my mom-in-law. She is getting along fine with her 5c, even without a manual. She’s figured out Facetime. She is buying apps and organizing them into folders. Turns out she didn’t special instruction. She just needed permission and a safe place to ask about things she didn’t understand.

The future isn’t about technology. The future is about better ways to learn and giving ourselves permission to try new things. The future is about being okay with not knowing and asking for help when needed.

May all of our classrooms be noisy, busy and lots and lots of fun.

My Personal Internet History

This is my first reflective essay written for the Internet History Technology and Security MOOC I am taking with Dr. Chuck Severance via Coursera. What’s your personal interent history?

*******

I first met the internet in 1992. I was a senior in high school when my friend Brian introduced me to a thing called Gopher. Gopher was a bunch of orange letters on a black computer screen. Brian explained the idea of how the computer in my parents’ home office was connecting to lots of other people’s computers through a series of networks. He explained how I could hear the sound of that mysterious connection through the erratic pings and whistles of our 2600 baud modem. He explained how I could navigate those networks through a simple, command driven menu. Everything was text based. I could get words on my screen to imitate the words on someone else’s screen anytime I wanted. I could read messages posted on bulletin boards by people I didn’t even know. Gopher could take me anywhere I wanted to go, so long as where I wanted to go was one of several dozen universities. I was not impressed. There wasn’t anywhere I wanted to go.

Brian was a smart guy. He knew stuff.  A few years later, he tried to impress me again with his knowledge of a thing called Mosaic. This was way better than Gopher, he told me. There was more than just words on a screen. There were pictures and colors. I could navigate with a mouse rather than text input command menus. He was right. Web browsing was way better than Gopher. It was easier, more intuitive and more appealing. There still wasn’t anywhere I wanted to go.

I was slow to catch on to the importance of the World Wide Web. I didn’t enjoy chatting with people I didn’t know on AOL. I still find chatting with people I actually know in real life a bit tedious. I didn’t like reading subpar fan fiction. There were too many great books sitting on my shelves unread. I did email and the occasional Yahoo search but logged probably less than two or three hours a week online until I studied to become a librarian.

As a library desk clerk, I was amazed when our card catalog was automated. Suddenly, books were easy to discover and locate. Instead of only three paths to a book (title, author, and subject), I could now search for books by keyword. Things I cared about became a lot easier to keep track of.

That’s when I started thinking about the importance of metadata and how good digital record keeping makes things easier to store, organize and retrieve. I began thinking about the internet like a giant database of millions of different kinds of things people cared about. I began to pay attention to how books, articles and other intellectual artifacts were coded, tagged and labeled for easy recovery. And then, I began to notice how much easier getting useful, personally relevant information had become.

In the library, I saw grandparents emailing grandchildren. I saw unemployed workers searching national job registries for opportunities. I saw people sharing recommendations about the books they read with friends scattered all around the world. These were all things libraries were supposed to help people do. Networked computers helped people do those things faster and better.

I received my Masters of Science in Information Sciences from University of Tennessee, Knoxville in 2000. That same year, I took my first professional position as User Services Librarian at Roane State Community College. As a young librarian, I adopted the myth that libraries were somehow in competition with Google. I tried my best to teach my students that the convenience of Google was great but that serious research and real knowledge required the sacred authority that dwelled only in print. My gospel was that learning required sacrifice and discomfort and that the fun of the persistent, exhaustive search was its own reward.

I no longer believe that. The world has changed. Information is easy to get. Google and Wikipedia make facts and fact-like items easy to obtain. With the advent of wireless internet and mobile devices, we are positively swimming in easy to get information. Facebook and Twitter have changed the way we communicate with each other. Facebook makes it easy to share everyday details of our hidden lives with each other so that we can know one another more completely. Twitter surfaces like-minded fellows from across the world with whom I can share ideas and get instant, valuable feedback and useful articles without even asking. They know what I need before I do and they share it willingly. They share it simply for the joy of sharing.

People ask if the world still needs libraries in the age of Google, iPads, eBooks and Twitter. I think yes, but I’m not sure that those libraries necessarily need to look like they have looked in the past. I stopped telling my students that Google is bad. It isn’t. Much of the world’s best knowledge, scholarship and ideas are findable online. Not everything is accessible online, but most everything is discoverable. Licensing restrictions, pay walls and complex copyright processes prevent most current information from being easily, freely shared. But still, I believe there has never been a better time to be doing the kind of work that I am doing. The internet makes our information lives much richer, deeper and more complex. Information is everywhere, but context is scarce. The next work of librarians and educators is going to be helping people figure out how to make their best sense of these riches to build new things that are useful. This is the work that lies ahead. It is work that I enjoy very much.

This is the first few chapters in my personal internet history.

Getting Started with MOOC #2: Coursera’s Internet History, Technology and Security

For the next 11 weeks, I will be learning about the origins, development and structure of the internet. I am taking a free online course taught by Dr. Charles Severance of the University of Michigan. There are several thousand other students taking the course with me. The course is offered by Coursera as a massively open online course, or MOOC. My classmates are joining me from all over the world.

The content is very relevant to the work I do and to the interests of this blog. I hope to share some of the things I am learning from time to time. Even though life is very hectic for me right now, I wanted to take this course because it fills a gap in my professional knowledge. My masters in information sciences did not dig very deep into the history and structure of the internet itself. I know the basic story — ARPAnet, CERN, Vint Cerf, Mosaic, Google, etc. My brief introduction to internet history focused primary on the social/cultural history. I want to know the fuller narrative. I want to know more about the technical aspects and how they have development. What, actually, is the internet? How does it work? Where is it?

This will be my second MOOC. I took a shorter 4 week course last month on Instructional Design for Mobile Learning last month. Like most people who sign up for a no-cost, online, no accountability course, I did not finish that course. I learned a few things and was fascinated by how it operated.

I am interested in seeing how MOOCs operate, since online educators, librarians, higher ed administrators and state government are getting pretty much obsessed with the prospects of delivering low-cost education at web scale. Whether web-scale, mass education is possible remains to be seen. I do know that MOOCs can deliver on the promise of low-cost, personalized, continuous professional development.

My first MOOC operated on the Canvas platform and felt like a really fun social media platform for smart people who liked to share their learning. It was a fun, collegial and inspiring learning environment. Pretty much like the best seminar class I ever had in grad school.

This experience will be different. The course is longer. The structure is more buttoned-down. Activities and lectures are released weekly. Activities, quizzes and exams are graded. Things are due on time to ensure some level of accountability. There are honor codes and, for a small fee, potential for a credential of sorts.

So I am looking forward to getting into this new classroom as a student and seeing what I can learn about online teaching that helps me be a better teacher and librarian. And I am going to try not to let this disturb my goal of writing four short stories in the next two months.

This is the kind of weirdness I do for fun.

Summer vacations are for wusses. 🙂