Hot chocolate, an hour of free time, and a friend.
Yesterday I had the chance to catch up with a friend. LV and I went to grad school together, but we also work together now. We share an office. Simply because we share an office doesn't mean that we have a lot of time to catch up. Quite the opposite in fact.
Somehow yesterday provided us the unique opportunity of an hour. When I realized that LV and I had some free time AT the same time, I put my grading down. She asked if I wanted a cup of hot chocolate as she was making some for herself and I agreed. The day yesterday was sunny and cool outside our office window. It's fall here in Forest Grove and the trees on campus were celebrating with a fireworks display of yellow, orange and red.
I followed LV down the hall to the teacher's lounge with my travel mug. As we waited for her plug-in kettle to warm up, we began talking about our classes and our students. The dialogue began as it usually does, a couple of complaints about too many papers, not enough thought, etc. But because we had the space of an hour, we slipped deeper into the conversation than we normally do. We found ourselves talking about the intent of education and the necessity for new models, new paradigms that rely on creative thinking rather than standardized testing. It was one of those conversations that is fueled by the passions, that is a true call and answer, a meeting of the minds and I found myself "high" from it. Maybe it was the hot chocolate. Whose to say?
We didn't necessarily solve anything through our discussion, but we rediscovered something about why we teach, about why we love it, and why it is important, and the process elicited a joyful sigh. LV soon had to depart and she made her way out of the building.
I was left alone with my reflections and I felt good about myself, about my place in the world, in my work, and what I give to my students. I put on my iPod, closed my office door, and danced a little bit before I sat down to grade the rest of my papers. I found that they went quickly and I was more readily able to see the potential nestled in their thinking/writing.
Hot chocolate, an hour of free time, and a good friend altered my perspective, shifted my mood, lifted me up a little bit. It's what friends are supposed to do. I simply hope that as LV walked out of Berglund that day, weighted down with her baskets full of papers, that the load felt light and a song bounced around the back of her head.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Clint McCance
I know I was supposed to dedicate this week to the Joy Narratives, but this issue came to my attention and I couldn't help but do my part to spread the word.
Recently, an Arkansas School official posted a Facebook post in response to Spirit Day. A day where people were supposed to wear purple in support of homosexual teens. The vitriol and hatred present in this post was despicable. McCance even called for all homosexuals to kill "thereselves". This is a man who makes decisions that control the education of young minds. In my opinion, this kind of individual is the most dangerous sort of person to have in control of curriculum. He should resign immediately.
I can't fault him for speaking his opinion out loud. Most times people who feel this way are dictated by shame and fear of social retribution. I think if there is any chance of eliminating this kind of prejudice we have to allow these people to speak their minds so at least their thoughts exist in the public domain. McCance at least stands by his convictions and lets people know his bias. His comments should spark a dialogue, an exchange between people that discusses the value of a life, EVERY LIFE, and how harmful these kinds of comments can be to young minds.
I won't even begin to discuss the grammar of the post itself. This from a man in charge of education?!
For more information on the situation, you can follow this link.
Recently, an Arkansas School official posted a Facebook post in response to Spirit Day. A day where people were supposed to wear purple in support of homosexual teens. The vitriol and hatred present in this post was despicable. McCance even called for all homosexuals to kill "thereselves". This is a man who makes decisions that control the education of young minds. In my opinion, this kind of individual is the most dangerous sort of person to have in control of curriculum. He should resign immediately.
I can't fault him for speaking his opinion out loud. Most times people who feel this way are dictated by shame and fear of social retribution. I think if there is any chance of eliminating this kind of prejudice we have to allow these people to speak their minds so at least their thoughts exist in the public domain. McCance at least stands by his convictions and lets people know his bias. His comments should spark a dialogue, an exchange between people that discusses the value of a life, EVERY LIFE, and how harmful these kinds of comments can be to young minds.
I won't even begin to discuss the grammar of the post itself. This from a man in charge of education?!
For more information on the situation, you can follow this link.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The Joy Narrative - Day 2
Tomorrow is comic book day. Today I'll be on the Internet looking up previews of comics that come out tomorrow. The comic book companies release four- to five-page previews of the new titles a couple of days in advance. I could simply wait until tomorrow to read the first pages of the books I collect, but I can't help myself. I want those stories. I want to keep up with Green Lantern, Cyclops, Wolverine, Storm, Rogue and X-23. I love these characters. I have followed them now for almost two decades. I've grown up with them. I've developed a deeper sense of story by reading theirs.
I'm a writer. I'm bound to love stories, but there is something unique about comic books, about the blending of image and text that...morphs the form into something new and exciting. Some will say it is all violence and cartoon women with big breasts, but it is more than that. For example, the core titles I collect are the X-men line. While the X-men are about high adventure and pulp fiction, the comics are also about family, alienation, courage and heroism, growing up, and finding your purpose in the world.
In much the same way that generations have grown up with the Bible as a source of morality, so have I grown up on the lessons of the comic book world. More often than not, you will find the characters in comics driven by an inner sense of purpose, forced to question the limits of their own morality and how that morality translates into action. I think they serve as the modern day fable, the parable. They can be used as a barometer of culture.
When Captain America was killed a couple of years ago, it felt right. There was something present in the culture at that specific juncture that made it seem appropriate that a symbol of American patriotism should be assassinated. In fact, he was assassinated by one of his own (the plot thickens). Well, since then he's been resurrected in typical comic book fashion, but that too reflects on what is happening in American culture.
Many people scoff at my fetishistic pleasure in comic books, but there is something real and tangible underneath the sci-fi/fantasy. The metaphor of power translates in very real terms into a life lived on this plane. I love them and I hope to keep that little kid inside of me alive for as long as a I possibly can.
I'm a writer. I'm bound to love stories, but there is something unique about comic books, about the blending of image and text that...morphs the form into something new and exciting. Some will say it is all violence and cartoon women with big breasts, but it is more than that. For example, the core titles I collect are the X-men line. While the X-men are about high adventure and pulp fiction, the comics are also about family, alienation, courage and heroism, growing up, and finding your purpose in the world.
In much the same way that generations have grown up with the Bible as a source of morality, so have I grown up on the lessons of the comic book world. More often than not, you will find the characters in comics driven by an inner sense of purpose, forced to question the limits of their own morality and how that morality translates into action. I think they serve as the modern day fable, the parable. They can be used as a barometer of culture.
When Captain America was killed a couple of years ago, it felt right. There was something present in the culture at that specific juncture that made it seem appropriate that a symbol of American patriotism should be assassinated. In fact, he was assassinated by one of his own (the plot thickens). Well, since then he's been resurrected in typical comic book fashion, but that too reflects on what is happening in American culture.
Many people scoff at my fetishistic pleasure in comic books, but there is something real and tangible underneath the sci-fi/fantasy. The metaphor of power translates in very real terms into a life lived on this plane. I love them and I hope to keep that little kid inside of me alive for as long as a I possibly can.
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Joy Narrative - Day 1
The other day I made a quick blog post on dancing and how much I love it. I felt great afterward and I began thinking about how I need to focus on things that bring me real joy. So, I decided that for one week I would try and write exclusively about things that made me happy.
Today? My dog, Neera.
Tracy and I were living on a piece of country property when we got Neera as a puppy. She's the daughter of a pound rescue. We don't know much about her breed but it's fairly obvious that she's at least a little bit lab. She's had her problems. She's been attacked by other dogs, raccoons, and skunks. She's dog on dog aggressive and so she's not exactly a dog park dog, but she's sweet with our little girl, has been since Shea was a baby. She loves to snuggle with me and there are many nights when I fall asleep with my arm over her and the smell of her fur filling my dreams.
Each and every day we run her outside. We grab the Chuck-It and toss the tennis ball for her. She rips around the yard like a shadow. She's fast as hell and she'll play until she pukes. She's getting on eight years old now and lately Tracy and I've been noticing a little bit of slowing in her. We have many good years left with her and for that I'm grateful.
Even as I'm sitting here typing, Neera is lying next to me on the couch. She curls up next to me when I work and waits for me to go to bed. Tracy gets frustrated at times because she wants Neera to keep her company until I go to bed, but the dog often winds up posted up next to me. I scratch her ears between grading essays and if it gets to late she whines and tells me I need to go to bed. She's like an alarm clock in reverse.
For many of you these posts will be the least interesting of my posts, but these are the things that lift me up in a day. When I get home from work and my dog greets me at the door with an overly enthusiastic hello, well, I light up a little. She's a part of our family and she brings me comfort and companionship and that coveted emotion...joy.
Today? My dog, Neera.
Each and every day we run her outside. We grab the Chuck-It and toss the tennis ball for her. She rips around the yard like a shadow. She's fast as hell and she'll play until she pukes. She's getting on eight years old now and lately Tracy and I've been noticing a little bit of slowing in her. We have many good years left with her and for that I'm grateful.
For many of you these posts will be the least interesting of my posts, but these are the things that lift me up in a day. When I get home from work and my dog greets me at the door with an overly enthusiastic hello, well, I light up a little. She's a part of our family and she brings me comfort and companionship and that coveted emotion...joy.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Dance
Lately, I've been on a pop/R&B/rap kick. I'd like to say I don't understand it, but I know exactly why I've been listening to this type of music.
I LOVE TO DANCE.
Trust me when I say this is not the most comfortable admission for a married, 30-something, white boy father. I don't have moves. I'm not altogether graceful, but what I don't have in natural ability I make up for in joy. That's right...joy. It brings me joy to dance. I've been CRAVING a wedding lately. I want someone to get married so I have an excuse to get out there and dance.
I'm sitting here right now listening to "4 minutes" by Madonna, Justin Timberlake, and Timbaland. I have them on headphones so the rest of the house doesn't wake up, but I have the volume cranked and I got the head bobbing, the foot jumping and I feel like I could be compelled out of my seat at any moment. I could stop writing in the middle of a sentence to go bust a...
I LOVE TO DANCE.
Trust me when I say this is not the most comfortable admission for a married, 30-something, white boy father. I don't have moves. I'm not altogether graceful, but what I don't have in natural ability I make up for in joy. That's right...joy. It brings me joy to dance. I've been CRAVING a wedding lately. I want someone to get married so I have an excuse to get out there and dance.
I'm sitting here right now listening to "4 minutes" by Madonna, Justin Timberlake, and Timbaland. I have them on headphones so the rest of the house doesn't wake up, but I have the volume cranked and I got the head bobbing, the foot jumping and I feel like I could be compelled out of my seat at any moment. I could stop writing in the middle of a sentence to go bust a...
Friday, October 22, 2010
Rough Drafts
One of my writing classes is handing in rough drafts tomorrow. I'm not going to edit them.
I'm sitting here feeling guilty about this. I've never had students hand in an essay without helping them with their drafts...ever. I'm officially cutting them loose to do it on their own.
The reason I'm doing this is because I'm auditioning the concept. Lately I've been talking with other teachers about their process and almost none of them comment on rough drafts. I believe in the process I've used over the last couple of years. I've seen improvement, real improvement, in student writing, but I can't maintain. I've commented on every students' rough draft on every essay assignment for every semester since I've begun teaching. That means I have marked 1320 essays in the last three years. It's exhausting.
So, I'm going to let them do it on their own. I'm going to see if there is a significant difference in the quality of their finals. I'm giving them a page and a half worth of peer review questions they will have to answer (single spaced) and I'm giving them until next Wednesday to complete the final.
I have to do this. Something has to give. The class I'm doing this with has received my feedback on six different occasions. That only includes major essay assignments and not the blog assignment or other prewriting activities.
I know this post is a giant justification. It's me working past my guilt. I'm hoping it works.
I'm sitting here feeling guilty about this. I've never had students hand in an essay without helping them with their drafts...ever. I'm officially cutting them loose to do it on their own.
The reason I'm doing this is because I'm auditioning the concept. Lately I've been talking with other teachers about their process and almost none of them comment on rough drafts. I believe in the process I've used over the last couple of years. I've seen improvement, real improvement, in student writing, but I can't maintain. I've commented on every students' rough draft on every essay assignment for every semester since I've begun teaching. That means I have marked 1320 essays in the last three years. It's exhausting.
So, I'm going to let them do it on their own. I'm going to see if there is a significant difference in the quality of their finals. I'm giving them a page and a half worth of peer review questions they will have to answer (single spaced) and I'm giving them until next Wednesday to complete the final.
I have to do this. Something has to give. The class I'm doing this with has received my feedback on six different occasions. That only includes major essay assignments and not the blog assignment or other prewriting activities.
I know this post is a giant justification. It's me working past my guilt. I'm hoping it works.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Sleep
My love affair with sleep is a tumultous one. We are lovers in the latin sense: fiery, passionate, unpredictable. We can spend hours together in bed one day and then not be on speaking terms the next. Our ups and downs are conflicts of legend, battles between good and evil, mythic conquests where I, the hero, try to tame the beast, to control its elusive powers through domination and force of will.
Other times, I am the sycophant, the pleading worshipper, begging for attention, desperate for its return. I am the sailor's wife on the widow's walk overlooking the sea wishing for my lover's safe return. I am desperate with worry that I won't be reunited.
I am the worried parent in the night, ear pressed to the monitor, listening to the sick child's rasping, the sputtering and coughs through the night, the low moans and whistles, the sickness percolating in her lungs, a science project gone awry.
Other times, sleep is the void. It is emptiness and nothingness. It is the moment after world's end. It is the moment before creation, it is absence and blackness.
I think sleep and I need couple's counseling.
Other times, I am the sycophant, the pleading worshipper, begging for attention, desperate for its return. I am the sailor's wife on the widow's walk overlooking the sea wishing for my lover's safe return. I am desperate with worry that I won't be reunited.
I am the worried parent in the night, ear pressed to the monitor, listening to the sick child's rasping, the sputtering and coughs through the night, the low moans and whistles, the sickness percolating in her lungs, a science project gone awry.
Other times, sleep is the void. It is emptiness and nothingness. It is the moment after world's end. It is the moment before creation, it is absence and blackness.
I think sleep and I need couple's counseling.
Superfan
I watched Superman again tonight. It's been a long time since I've seen it but I was immediately transported to that place and time, to being a child. The movie was a formidable one for me. I was familiar with the character from Saturday morning cartoons and from the old black and white television show that used to air on Sunday mornings, but I'd never seen anything quite like Richard Donner's work.
My love for all things comic might have been solidified at this point. I'd always loved the cartoons, the campy Batman show, but Donner's version of Superman gave a maturity and complexity to that world that I didn't realize could exist.
It would be years before I was re-introduced to the comic book and all the lovely forms it can take, but there is something about that first Superman movie that goes beyond simply my fan boy craze for flying superheroes that shoot lasers out of their eyes (which is still cool, I don't care who you are). It felt good to be a boy.
My love for all things comic might have been solidified at this point. I'd always loved the cartoons, the campy Batman show, but Donner's version of Superman gave a maturity and complexity to that world that I didn't realize could exist.
It would be years before I was re-introduced to the comic book and all the lovely forms it can take, but there is something about that first Superman movie that goes beyond simply my fan boy craze for flying superheroes that shoot lasers out of their eyes (which is still cool, I don't care who you are). It felt good to be a boy.
Monday, October 18, 2010
A Moment
"217 is a parking lot," my wife says over the phone.
I'm sitting on the floor of my daughter's room, stroking her hair to get her to wake up. "What?"
"217 is a parking lot. One of the ladies just got here and she said there was an accident and the highway is backed up both ways. You might want to go the back way."
"Okay," I say, "thanks." Shea rolls over on her side and embraces my forearm, gives me a kiss on the back of my hand. "Good morning," I say in my morning sing-song.
"Morning," she mumbles. My mother has already arrived to watch her and is standing behind me.
"I have to go to work, sweetheart. You gonna be good for Noni?"
"Uh-huh," she says and turns her face into her pillow. I kiss her on the cheek and again by her ear. I don't get to snuggle this morning as is our usual custom. We let Shea sleep in as she didn't feel well the night before and was restless all through the night.
I apologize to my mother for taking off so abruptly, but she says she understands and sets about gathering together an outfit for Shea.
As I drive south out of Oregon City toward Canby, I don't expect much from the commute. As I press past Canby into Aurora, I begin to feel myself relax a bit. I'm not driving freeways but small highways with open fields on both sides. The morning fog is still sleeping in the folds of hills and in the low marshy places. The trees are lit with yellow and orange. I'm not consciously paying attention, but rather I am sipping my coffee and taking it all in without noticing as much.
By the time I get to the west side of Newberg, I am agape at the beauty of the morning. The fog has been reduced to small rivulets and fingers of smoke in the low lying areas and, amidst the jade evergreen, the leaves have taken on the flash and sparkle of amber, of ruby, and tiger's eye.
The road is near empty, as is my coffee, and I cruise through the banking corners with what feels like balletic grace. I'm on my way to those commitments that wearied me only days ago, but somehow, out here, out amongst the color and the open air, somewhere in the ambient hum of my engine, I find a space to breathe. I find the space to relax, breathe deep and take in the crisp morning fog that must enter my lungs like smoke, or maybe, if I'm lucky, like spirit.
I'm sitting on the floor of my daughter's room, stroking her hair to get her to wake up. "What?"
"217 is a parking lot. One of the ladies just got here and she said there was an accident and the highway is backed up both ways. You might want to go the back way."
"Okay," I say, "thanks." Shea rolls over on her side and embraces my forearm, gives me a kiss on the back of my hand. "Good morning," I say in my morning sing-song.
"Morning," she mumbles. My mother has already arrived to watch her and is standing behind me.
"I have to go to work, sweetheart. You gonna be good for Noni?"
"Uh-huh," she says and turns her face into her pillow. I kiss her on the cheek and again by her ear. I don't get to snuggle this morning as is our usual custom. We let Shea sleep in as she didn't feel well the night before and was restless all through the night.
I apologize to my mother for taking off so abruptly, but she says she understands and sets about gathering together an outfit for Shea.
As I drive south out of Oregon City toward Canby, I don't expect much from the commute. As I press past Canby into Aurora, I begin to feel myself relax a bit. I'm not driving freeways but small highways with open fields on both sides. The morning fog is still sleeping in the folds of hills and in the low marshy places. The trees are lit with yellow and orange. I'm not consciously paying attention, but rather I am sipping my coffee and taking it all in without noticing as much.
By the time I get to the west side of Newberg, I am agape at the beauty of the morning. The fog has been reduced to small rivulets and fingers of smoke in the low lying areas and, amidst the jade evergreen, the leaves have taken on the flash and sparkle of amber, of ruby, and tiger's eye.
The road is near empty, as is my coffee, and I cruise through the banking corners with what feels like balletic grace. I'm on my way to those commitments that wearied me only days ago, but somehow, out here, out amongst the color and the open air, somewhere in the ambient hum of my engine, I find a space to breathe. I find the space to relax, breathe deep and take in the crisp morning fog that must enter my lungs like smoke, or maybe, if I'm lucky, like spirit.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Spiritually Exhausted
I'm having a hard time focusing on the papers I'm meant to grade right now. The last couple of weeks have left me feeling drained. It's not attributable to anything in specific but more like a perfect storm of conditions that seem to build and hit all at once.
At school I'm holding down an overtime load. I'm teaching four intensive writing courses which means stacks upon stacks of essays at any given time. I'm swimming in essays right now. I have about 90 in my bag right now that need to be graded. Add to that the individual student needs, extensions, concessions, guilt trips, whining, etc and you'll see where an abundance of my energy goes.
At home Tracy and I have had to shoulder the stress of a major medical appointment this week. Shea had to go in for an ultrasound appointment that might have led to major surgery involving her bladder and kidneys. While the appointment went well, no major surgery, it didn't go as we'd hoped. While she doesn't have to undergo major surgery she does have to have a small procedure that involves anaesthesia but doesn't involve opening her up. It's a small victory, but we were hoping that her reflux would have resolved itself and her kidneys would have grown at a regular rate. While we've been able to exhale a bit, my shoulders still ride high from some of the residual tension and worry that is wrapped up in her overall health.
Don't get me wrong. She's healthy. I don't want anyone to panic. It's just that there are a couple of things we need to "stay on top of" and those things carry residual anxiety, those of you who are parents will easily understand what I'm talking about.
Add to that the day to day obligations of family and extended family and you'll begin to be able to piece together why I'm riding a little low on energy these days. I just don't feel like I have much to offer anyone right now. It's hard to say "no" to family, friends, students, etc. At least it's hard for me. I don't ask people for things but I'm going to start asking for my energy back. I have to start protecting myself a little bit. It's a down cycle, I know, but these troughs of energy require that I set some boundaries.
Tonight, I'm playing cards with friends. I'm taking the night to myself. I'm hoping the free time will serve me well and find me rested tomorrow.
At school I'm holding down an overtime load. I'm teaching four intensive writing courses which means stacks upon stacks of essays at any given time. I'm swimming in essays right now. I have about 90 in my bag right now that need to be graded. Add to that the individual student needs, extensions, concessions, guilt trips, whining, etc and you'll see where an abundance of my energy goes.
At home Tracy and I have had to shoulder the stress of a major medical appointment this week. Shea had to go in for an ultrasound appointment that might have led to major surgery involving her bladder and kidneys. While the appointment went well, no major surgery, it didn't go as we'd hoped. While she doesn't have to undergo major surgery she does have to have a small procedure that involves anaesthesia but doesn't involve opening her up. It's a small victory, but we were hoping that her reflux would have resolved itself and her kidneys would have grown at a regular rate. While we've been able to exhale a bit, my shoulders still ride high from some of the residual tension and worry that is wrapped up in her overall health.
Don't get me wrong. She's healthy. I don't want anyone to panic. It's just that there are a couple of things we need to "stay on top of" and those things carry residual anxiety, those of you who are parents will easily understand what I'm talking about.
Add to that the day to day obligations of family and extended family and you'll begin to be able to piece together why I'm riding a little low on energy these days. I just don't feel like I have much to offer anyone right now. It's hard to say "no" to family, friends, students, etc. At least it's hard for me. I don't ask people for things but I'm going to start asking for my energy back. I have to start protecting myself a little bit. It's a down cycle, I know, but these troughs of energy require that I set some boundaries.
Tonight, I'm playing cards with friends. I'm taking the night to myself. I'm hoping the free time will serve me well and find me rested tomorrow.
Friday, October 15, 2010
More Carl Honore and the Confusion of the American Dream.
I think I misunderstood the lesson. When I was little I was told I could be anything I wanted to be. It's a noble thought, an honorable thought, but one I misconstrued a little. One I think many of us misconstrue. This realization came to me as I was rereading "In Praise of Slowness" by Carl Honore. In chapter one, titled "Do Everything Faster", Honore writes:
"As well as glittering careers, we want to take art courses, work out at the gym, read the newspaper and every book on the bestseller list, eat out with friends, go clubbing, play sports, watch hours of television, listen to music, spend time with family, buy all the newest fashions and gadgets, go to the cinema, enjoy intimacy and great sex with our partners, holiday in far-flung locations and maybe even do some meaningful volunteer work. The result is a gnawing disconnect between what we want from life and what we can realistically have, which feeds the sense that there is never enough time."
So, while I appreciate my early childhood lesson, I wish someone would have clarified that I didn't have to be ALL of these things. The paragraph above encompasses me so completely that I was shocked by its accuracy when I read it. Well, maybe taking writing workshops instead of art course would have been a better fit, but that's simply splitting hairs.
Why can't I better understand my capabilities. I just clicked over to my Google Calendar where I am tracking my appointments, my class schedule, social events and other commitment. Five days a week I am booked from 7:30 in the morning until midnight. Granted there is a 3 hour block of "Family Time" in there, but come ON! I'm scheduling family time?! I showed the calendar to the students who are taking my class and forced to read this book. They practically soiled themselves. They couldn't believe it. I know I'm not the norm, but I'm A norm. There are many adjunct professors who are working at multiple institutions while balancing family and their own work in their content area.
How do I get off the treadmill? I don't know. I start making decisions. I start deciding what is really important. In the chapter on "Work" Honore writes:
"A 2002 study carried out at Kyushu University in Fukuoka, Japan, found that men who work sixty hours a week are twice as likely to have a heart attack as men who put in forty hours. That risk is trebled for those who sleep less than five hours a night at least twice a week."
Crap! I don't like my odds when I read that. If this pace, these life choices, have that kind of detrimental effect on my health, choices must be made. So, I'm left to ponder where I make the cuts. I won't stop writing. I have to work. I MUST be present and available to my family, so what's left?
Well, I won't be hitting the clubs any time soon (which is okay because Shea and Tracy dance with me at home).
I might not be able to squeeze a run in as often as I like.
My social life will be slower (but that might be okay because I'm kind of becoming a grumpy old man anyway.)
I know I won't read everything on the bestseller list.
I'm forced to cut back on television, cinema, theater, and music.
The volunteer work is out the window for now.
I refuse to give up intimacy and great sex (sorry, mom and dad. I know you read this blog).
I'll prioritize. It's a compromise. Part of compromise is "promise". Do I mean that as a promise to myself? Or, do I mean that tomorrow has "promise" because I've now solidified some of my priorities in writing? Whose to say? The only way to find out is to take action and see what tomorrow brings.
"As well as glittering careers, we want to take art courses, work out at the gym, read the newspaper and every book on the bestseller list, eat out with friends, go clubbing, play sports, watch hours of television, listen to music, spend time with family, buy all the newest fashions and gadgets, go to the cinema, enjoy intimacy and great sex with our partners, holiday in far-flung locations and maybe even do some meaningful volunteer work. The result is a gnawing disconnect between what we want from life and what we can realistically have, which feeds the sense that there is never enough time."
So, while I appreciate my early childhood lesson, I wish someone would have clarified that I didn't have to be ALL of these things. The paragraph above encompasses me so completely that I was shocked by its accuracy when I read it. Well, maybe taking writing workshops instead of art course would have been a better fit, but that's simply splitting hairs.
Why can't I better understand my capabilities. I just clicked over to my Google Calendar where I am tracking my appointments, my class schedule, social events and other commitment. Five days a week I am booked from 7:30 in the morning until midnight. Granted there is a 3 hour block of "Family Time" in there, but come ON! I'm scheduling family time?! I showed the calendar to the students who are taking my class and forced to read this book. They practically soiled themselves. They couldn't believe it. I know I'm not the norm, but I'm A norm. There are many adjunct professors who are working at multiple institutions while balancing family and their own work in their content area.
How do I get off the treadmill? I don't know. I start making decisions. I start deciding what is really important. In the chapter on "Work" Honore writes:
"A 2002 study carried out at Kyushu University in Fukuoka, Japan, found that men who work sixty hours a week are twice as likely to have a heart attack as men who put in forty hours. That risk is trebled for those who sleep less than five hours a night at least twice a week."
Crap! I don't like my odds when I read that. If this pace, these life choices, have that kind of detrimental effect on my health, choices must be made. So, I'm left to ponder where I make the cuts. I won't stop writing. I have to work. I MUST be present and available to my family, so what's left?
Well, I won't be hitting the clubs any time soon (which is okay because Shea and Tracy dance with me at home).
I might not be able to squeeze a run in as often as I like.
My social life will be slower (but that might be okay because I'm kind of becoming a grumpy old man anyway.)
I know I won't read everything on the bestseller list.
I'm forced to cut back on television, cinema, theater, and music.
The volunteer work is out the window for now.
I refuse to give up intimacy and great sex (sorry, mom and dad. I know you read this blog).
I'll prioritize. It's a compromise. Part of compromise is "promise". Do I mean that as a promise to myself? Or, do I mean that tomorrow has "promise" because I've now solidified some of my priorities in writing? Whose to say? The only way to find out is to take action and see what tomorrow brings.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Slowness Enables Productivity
Dear Universe,
Thanks for allowing me a couple of days rest this weekend. Since my return I have been able to conquer more than 40 essays, 4 lesson plans, and retain a bit of my sanity. On a normal weekend I would have allowed my work to creep into my leisure but I made a solemn promise that I wouldn't this weekend. I promised myself I would make myself available to my wife.
Well, even though I had some anxiety about the whole situation on Saturday night, I was still able to accomplish all the things I was meant to accomplish. In fact, what I found is that my concentration has improved. Normally I have to take a break after about three student essays in order to clear my mind and to rest for a moment. Since I allowed myself some true rest, some leisure time without work, I've been able to boost my productivity.
I'm still reading In Praise of Slowness by Carl Honore for my FYS class. The concepts speak to me like nothing else I've read in a long time. I'm glad I chose it as my text. I knew by the title alone that Honore understood my dilemma. Let me quote you one of my favorite passages from that book. Honore writes:
"The Slow philosophy is not about doing everything at a snail's pace. It's about seeking to do everything at the right speed. Savouring the hours and minutes rather than just counting them. Doing everything as well as possible, instead of as fast as possible. It's about quality over quantity in everything we do."
I love this idea because it is so familiar. It feels like a Grimm's Fairy Tale I've forgotten. "Oh, yeah, quality over quantity. I remember that." Often the best advice is the simplest. So, I'm going to try and rededicate myself to the ideal. I'm trying to take this one to heart.
So, Mr/Mrs Universe, anything you could do to enable this transition would be swell. I could use a break. They say if you want something to come true than you should speak it. Well, I'm praying that writing serves the same function. Thanks for listening.
Thanks for allowing me a couple of days rest this weekend. Since my return I have been able to conquer more than 40 essays, 4 lesson plans, and retain a bit of my sanity. On a normal weekend I would have allowed my work to creep into my leisure but I made a solemn promise that I wouldn't this weekend. I promised myself I would make myself available to my wife.
Well, even though I had some anxiety about the whole situation on Saturday night, I was still able to accomplish all the things I was meant to accomplish. In fact, what I found is that my concentration has improved. Normally I have to take a break after about three student essays in order to clear my mind and to rest for a moment. Since I allowed myself some true rest, some leisure time without work, I've been able to boost my productivity.
I'm still reading In Praise of Slowness by Carl Honore for my FYS class. The concepts speak to me like nothing else I've read in a long time. I'm glad I chose it as my text. I knew by the title alone that Honore understood my dilemma. Let me quote you one of my favorite passages from that book. Honore writes:
"The Slow philosophy is not about doing everything at a snail's pace. It's about seeking to do everything at the right speed. Savouring the hours and minutes rather than just counting them. Doing everything as well as possible, instead of as fast as possible. It's about quality over quantity in everything we do."
I love this idea because it is so familiar. It feels like a Grimm's Fairy Tale I've forgotten. "Oh, yeah, quality over quantity. I remember that." Often the best advice is the simplest. So, I'm going to try and rededicate myself to the ideal. I'm trying to take this one to heart.
So, Mr/Mrs Universe, anything you could do to enable this transition would be swell. I could use a break. They say if you want something to come true than you should speak it. Well, I'm praying that writing serves the same function. Thanks for listening.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
It's nice to meet you...again.
The drive up to the Resort at the Mountain found Tracy and I alone in the car together. I had made a couple of playlists together in honor of our anniversary and we listened to them as we drove the back roads between Oregon City and Sandy. We opted out of taking the highway on the way there. The weekend's pace was already being established, even as we traversed the first five miles.
I sang to her as we drove. They were new songs, songs she didn't know, but I knew some of them by heart already. She smiled sweetly and rolled her eyes a bit. We talked over the radio, and she talked over my off key crooning. The land between Carver and Sandy is full of farm/ranch land and ranch style houses that make Tracy and I envious. We want to be out of town, on our own acreage some day and these country drives are a little tantalizing.
The sky was grey as we pushed our way up the mountain, but this is exactly what Tracy and I wanted. We wanted an excuse to do NOTHING. Mother Nature obliged us all weekend long.
We had cocktails and a nice dinner that first night. Both events were full of conversation. As the evening progressed, the conversation continued. We talked and talked and talked. We lit the fire in our room, cuddled up on the couch while the sliding door was open a crack to keep us from overheating. We lit candles, watched the fire, and poured some wine. We settled in and we talked and talked for hours on end. We hadn't had a day like this in forever. No little voice asking for toys, a trip to the bathroom, etc. No dog wanting to be played with. No papers to grade. It was heaven.
I got reacquainted with my wife over the last couple of days. It was a great delight to find I found her as deeply passionate, engaging, honest, and compassionate as our early days. She's still that dynamic young woman who swept me off my feet. Sometimes, it simply takes taking a moment to look.
I sang to her as we drove. They were new songs, songs she didn't know, but I knew some of them by heart already. She smiled sweetly and rolled her eyes a bit. We talked over the radio, and she talked over my off key crooning. The land between Carver and Sandy is full of farm/ranch land and ranch style houses that make Tracy and I envious. We want to be out of town, on our own acreage some day and these country drives are a little tantalizing.
The sky was grey as we pushed our way up the mountain, but this is exactly what Tracy and I wanted. We wanted an excuse to do NOTHING. Mother Nature obliged us all weekend long.
We had cocktails and a nice dinner that first night. Both events were full of conversation. As the evening progressed, the conversation continued. We talked and talked and talked. We lit the fire in our room, cuddled up on the couch while the sliding door was open a crack to keep us from overheating. We lit candles, watched the fire, and poured some wine. We settled in and we talked and talked for hours on end. We hadn't had a day like this in forever. No little voice asking for toys, a trip to the bathroom, etc. No dog wanting to be played with. No papers to grade. It was heaven.
I got reacquainted with my wife over the last couple of days. It was a great delight to find I found her as deeply passionate, engaging, honest, and compassionate as our early days. She's still that dynamic young woman who swept me off my feet. Sometimes, it simply takes taking a moment to look.
Friday, October 8, 2010
29.4117%
10 years. 10 years ago a young woman came into my life and turned everything on its head. 10 years ago I met my wife, Tracy. 10 years.
Let me set the scene for my amazement. Back in 2001, as Tracy and I were getting ready to celebrate our first anniversary, I turned to her and said, "You know I've never made it one year with the same woman, right?" I'd done the breakup and get back together thing, but never one continuous year. I remember being 25 years old and absolutely freaked out that I had spent 1/24 of my life with one person. I know!!! Can you even believe the ego on young me? 1/24th of MY life. What about the fraction of her life? Anyway, that's beside the point. I'm just marveling at how much has changed in those ten years.
Well, I came to grips with the fact that I'd dedicated one year of my life to her and we continued on. The following years have been happy. They've been a marriage, which inevitably has ups and downs, but I can easily say that my joy has definitely exceeded any drama.
Now, I sit here on the cusp of our 10th anniversary (relationship anniversary, not marriage) and I marvel at how much I can still love that woman. I marvel on the fact that she allows me to increase my percentage each and every year. Every year that we are together she allows me to increase my percentage. The percentage of my life spent with her, the percentage of my life where I've been happy, the percentage of my life where I've had something to strive for, where I've had someONE to strive for.
She's allowing my percentage to grow, but she's also allowing me to grow. She's seen me through career changes, a return to school, unemployment, she's endured pregnancy and childbirth. She's dealt with my morning breath and my body odor. She's entertained my extremely cheesy sense of humor. She's listened to my rants. She's watched me go crazy as I get too obsessed with my fictional stories. She listens to my rants when I have writer's block. She puts up with my distracted nature, my obsessive personality, my tendency to never shut up or to shut up entirely and communicate nothing. She's taken care of me when I am sick, drunk, sad, happy, panicked, and irrational. She's spent over a quarter of her life doing all of this for me.
I don't think I deserve it. I don't think I deserve her a lot of times, but she stays. She allows me to grow with her. To find new ways to love her, to pay tribute to her, to respect her, to tend to her needs, and to find new ways to aggravate her. Each year is an addition to the percentage of my life spent with her but also to the percentage of my heart that she owns.
I figure by the time I am 80 years old, I will have dedicated EXACTLY 70% of my life to loving her. Do the math, it's sound. 56/80=.7. I'm comfortable with 70%.
Happy Anniversary, Tracy!
Let me set the scene for my amazement. Back in 2001, as Tracy and I were getting ready to celebrate our first anniversary, I turned to her and said, "You know I've never made it one year with the same woman, right?" I'd done the breakup and get back together thing, but never one continuous year. I remember being 25 years old and absolutely freaked out that I had spent 1/24 of my life with one person. I know!!! Can you even believe the ego on young me? 1/24th of MY life. What about the fraction of her life? Anyway, that's beside the point. I'm just marveling at how much has changed in those ten years.
Well, I came to grips with the fact that I'd dedicated one year of my life to her and we continued on. The following years have been happy. They've been a marriage, which inevitably has ups and downs, but I can easily say that my joy has definitely exceeded any drama.
Now, I sit here on the cusp of our 10th anniversary (relationship anniversary, not marriage) and I marvel at how much I can still love that woman. I marvel on the fact that she allows me to increase my percentage each and every year. Every year that we are together she allows me to increase my percentage. The percentage of my life spent with her, the percentage of my life where I've been happy, the percentage of my life where I've had something to strive for, where I've had someONE to strive for.
She's allowing my percentage to grow, but she's also allowing me to grow. She's seen me through career changes, a return to school, unemployment, she's endured pregnancy and childbirth. She's dealt with my morning breath and my body odor. She's entertained my extremely cheesy sense of humor. She's listened to my rants. She's watched me go crazy as I get too obsessed with my fictional stories. She listens to my rants when I have writer's block. She puts up with my distracted nature, my obsessive personality, my tendency to never shut up or to shut up entirely and communicate nothing. She's taken care of me when I am sick, drunk, sad, happy, panicked, and irrational. She's spent over a quarter of her life doing all of this for me.
I don't think I deserve it. I don't think I deserve her a lot of times, but she stays. She allows me to grow with her. To find new ways to love her, to pay tribute to her, to respect her, to tend to her needs, and to find new ways to aggravate her. Each year is an addition to the percentage of my life spent with her but also to the percentage of my heart that she owns.
I figure by the time I am 80 years old, I will have dedicated EXACTLY 70% of my life to loving her. Do the math, it's sound. 56/80=.7. I'm comfortable with 70%.
Happy Anniversary, Tracy!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Preschool Meltdown
I've been fortunate so far, and a little bit of an ass. My daughter, up until today, has always thrilled at the idea of school. She gets dressed quickly, eats her breakfast and is excited to be whisked out the door, loaded into the car and dropped in her preschool classroom. That's the fortunate part. The ass part of it has to do with how I looked at the other parents whose kids would cry in the morning. Well, let's just say I thought one way and now...not so much.
Today didn't look to be much different than any other day. Shea woke up and snuggled in the bed while I was in the shower. She dressed without a fuss. It was a new outfit her Noni gave her. The bright green pants with the pink hoodie shirt with colored buttons kind of thrilled her. She liked that it had a pocket for her hands in the front. She even found a picture she had colored and asked if she could take it to school to give to her teacher. A normal morning. A normal pleasant morning.
Even as we walked down the sidewalk toward school, even as we descended the stairs to her classroom, even as we moved down the hallway toward the door, there was no indication for what was about to happen. The moment we stepped into the classroom, she was on me. She gripped my leg like a wrestler trying to upend me. She wasn't hugging my leg, she was gripping it. I felt the tips of her fingernails digging into my inner thigh. She was determined to never let me go.
I tried to find a quiet corner to explain to her that she had to stay at school. The teacher tempted her with stories, puzzles, colors, and any other activity that might distract her but Shea wouldn't let go of my neck or leg. She was ON ME.
It finally became time for me to leave. I had to go to work and the teachers looked at me and said, "Go. Seriously, we do this all the time. Go." I hesitated. I've never really had to leave Shea when she's like this. Not with "strangers" anyway. I mouthed an apology and the teacher's aide smiled back at me. She took Shea from my arms. Shea immediately erupted into a scream that could melt steel. It was hot with rage and disappointment and sadness. At least that is what it felt like to me as I turned from her outstretched fingers and walked away. I said, "I love you, Shea, but I have to go," and I turned and left the room.
I debated walking past the windows of the classroom to peek in and see if she was settling down but I was afraid she would see me and it would start her up all over again. So, I simply left the classroom, left the building, crossed the street and got in my car. I feel like a criminal, like I've fled the scene of the crime.
Today's a long day at school. I won't see Shea again until 7 o'clock tonight. I miss her terribly and will be weighed down all day with the guilt of my "abandonment". Ahh, parenthood.
Today didn't look to be much different than any other day. Shea woke up and snuggled in the bed while I was in the shower. She dressed without a fuss. It was a new outfit her Noni gave her. The bright green pants with the pink hoodie shirt with colored buttons kind of thrilled her. She liked that it had a pocket for her hands in the front. She even found a picture she had colored and asked if she could take it to school to give to her teacher. A normal morning. A normal pleasant morning.
Even as we walked down the sidewalk toward school, even as we descended the stairs to her classroom, even as we moved down the hallway toward the door, there was no indication for what was about to happen. The moment we stepped into the classroom, she was on me. She gripped my leg like a wrestler trying to upend me. She wasn't hugging my leg, she was gripping it. I felt the tips of her fingernails digging into my inner thigh. She was determined to never let me go.
I tried to find a quiet corner to explain to her that she had to stay at school. The teacher tempted her with stories, puzzles, colors, and any other activity that might distract her but Shea wouldn't let go of my neck or leg. She was ON ME.
It finally became time for me to leave. I had to go to work and the teachers looked at me and said, "Go. Seriously, we do this all the time. Go." I hesitated. I've never really had to leave Shea when she's like this. Not with "strangers" anyway. I mouthed an apology and the teacher's aide smiled back at me. She took Shea from my arms. Shea immediately erupted into a scream that could melt steel. It was hot with rage and disappointment and sadness. At least that is what it felt like to me as I turned from her outstretched fingers and walked away. I said, "I love you, Shea, but I have to go," and I turned and left the room.
I debated walking past the windows of the classroom to peek in and see if she was settling down but I was afraid she would see me and it would start her up all over again. So, I simply left the classroom, left the building, crossed the street and got in my car. I feel like a criminal, like I've fled the scene of the crime.
Today's a long day at school. I won't see Shea again until 7 o'clock tonight. I miss her terribly and will be weighed down all day with the guilt of my "abandonment". Ahh, parenthood.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The 200th post!!! Slowness.
A couple of things.
First, this is my 200th blog post. They've taken the place over a couple of years, but that seems significant to me. 200 things to say. 200 moments where I took the time to sit down and say something to the world at large, or at least those who know me and care to follow this blog. I feel like I've crossed a threshold with this blog project. It's not some little sideline thing anymore. It's a repository, a needed disclosure, a trusted space where I can process my life, my roles, my thoughts and feelings. It feels good. It always feels good to write and express and this space gives me constant reason to return to the keyboard.
Second, I'm starting a new unit in my First Year Seminar class. All the units surround a book called In Praise of Slowness by Carl Honore. You can find a link to the book on Powells.com here. Anyway, it is a book I began a long time ago and to which I have longed to return. It looks at the history of time in relation to man and human productivity and then begins to analyze how this relationship is expressed in modern culture. It's a fascinating look at things we don't normally look at: Cities, Food, Sex, Health, Family, Work, Leisure, and Children. Well, things we don't often think about in terms of time maybe.
I move too fast. I take on too much. I want it all. Honore has me PEGGED when he writes, "As well as glittering careers, we want to take art classes, work out at the gym, read the newspaper, and every book on the bestseller list, eat out with friends, go clubbing, play sports, watch hours of television, listen to music, spend time with the family, buy all the newest fashions and gadgets, go to the cinema, enjoy intimacy and sex with our partners, holiday in far-flung locations and maybe even do some meaningful volunteer work. The result is a gnawing disconnect between what we want from life and what we can realistically have, which feeds the sense that there is never enough time" (30-31). Do I hear a second? Anyone else feel this way? I have a hunch that many of us do.
So, as I have worked hard over the last couple of months to "make time" for this blog, I must work hard to give time to those things that are priority and learn to cut away those things that might be unattainable fantasy. I mean, really, does anyone need to see me at the club? No, didn't think so.
That doesn't mean I can't imagine it to be true. I've shredded a dance floor or two in my day. So, while the fantasy brings me joy, I can let go of the illusion and take solace in the fact that I just sat on my sofa with my dog curled up between my legs, reading a book after I've kissed my daughter and wife good night. That's enough for tonight. That's enough for me. I must try to remember these things.
First, this is my 200th blog post. They've taken the place over a couple of years, but that seems significant to me. 200 things to say. 200 moments where I took the time to sit down and say something to the world at large, or at least those who know me and care to follow this blog. I feel like I've crossed a threshold with this blog project. It's not some little sideline thing anymore. It's a repository, a needed disclosure, a trusted space where I can process my life, my roles, my thoughts and feelings. It feels good. It always feels good to write and express and this space gives me constant reason to return to the keyboard.
Second, I'm starting a new unit in my First Year Seminar class. All the units surround a book called In Praise of Slowness by Carl Honore. You can find a link to the book on Powells.com here. Anyway, it is a book I began a long time ago and to which I have longed to return. It looks at the history of time in relation to man and human productivity and then begins to analyze how this relationship is expressed in modern culture. It's a fascinating look at things we don't normally look at: Cities, Food, Sex, Health, Family, Work, Leisure, and Children. Well, things we don't often think about in terms of time maybe.
I move too fast. I take on too much. I want it all. Honore has me PEGGED when he writes, "As well as glittering careers, we want to take art classes, work out at the gym, read the newspaper, and every book on the bestseller list, eat out with friends, go clubbing, play sports, watch hours of television, listen to music, spend time with the family, buy all the newest fashions and gadgets, go to the cinema, enjoy intimacy and sex with our partners, holiday in far-flung locations and maybe even do some meaningful volunteer work. The result is a gnawing disconnect between what we want from life and what we can realistically have, which feeds the sense that there is never enough time" (30-31). Do I hear a second? Anyone else feel this way? I have a hunch that many of us do.
So, as I have worked hard over the last couple of months to "make time" for this blog, I must work hard to give time to those things that are priority and learn to cut away those things that might be unattainable fantasy. I mean, really, does anyone need to see me at the club? No, didn't think so.
That doesn't mean I can't imagine it to be true. I've shredded a dance floor or two in my day. So, while the fantasy brings me joy, I can let go of the illusion and take solace in the fact that I just sat on my sofa with my dog curled up between my legs, reading a book after I've kissed my daughter and wife good night. That's enough for tonight. That's enough for me. I must try to remember these things.
Ahh, tradition....Delicious!
This weekend played host to one of my favorite traditions: the Greek Festival. Our friend RB has her birthday on or near the festival weekend every year and we all pile in the car as a family and head into Portland to feast on gyros, spanakopita, baklava, lamb kabobs, and other tasty treats.
We make sure to leave the house by late morning because we want to make sure to get a table before the festival fills up. We are there by 11 and we almost have the run of the place to ourselves. We post up at a tall tavern style table. I'm not there two minutes before I'm waiting in the gyro line. I always want to eat about four hundred of those things before the day is over, but I know not to kill myself too early.
I roll back to table with three gyros in hand. One for Tracy and two for me. Shea can nibble on mine as I'm SHOVING them into my face. Attractive image, I know, but I'm telling you, these things are like crack cocaine. Tracy heads off to the beer line and soon I'm washing down my gyros with a Ninkasa IPA. Our friends RB, EB, and KH are there, as are my in-laws. We sit around the table talking at leisure.
It's not long before Shea hears the call of the traditional Greek music and wants to get to dancing. We bow/curtsy and set about spinning around the open spaces under the speaker posted on a nearby pole. She's a dancing machine, my Shea. Throughout the afternoon I take her out on the "dance floor" more than four times. Once down to the formal stage where they give demonstrations of traditional Greek dances. She spins and grins, spins and grins. The beer in my stomach becomes a little unsteady but I'm laughing too hard to give a damn.
The day ends with one final gyro (my total festival count was 4 this year) and a quick swig of the last of my beer. As Tracy, Shea and I load up into the car, I'm warm, content, and FULL. Needless to say, Shea and I both fell asleep in the car on the way home. What a great day.
We make sure to leave the house by late morning because we want to make sure to get a table before the festival fills up. We are there by 11 and we almost have the run of the place to ourselves. We post up at a tall tavern style table. I'm not there two minutes before I'm waiting in the gyro line. I always want to eat about four hundred of those things before the day is over, but I know not to kill myself too early.
I roll back to table with three gyros in hand. One for Tracy and two for me. Shea can nibble on mine as I'm SHOVING them into my face. Attractive image, I know, but I'm telling you, these things are like crack cocaine. Tracy heads off to the beer line and soon I'm washing down my gyros with a Ninkasa IPA. Our friends RB, EB, and KH are there, as are my in-laws. We sit around the table talking at leisure.
It's not long before Shea hears the call of the traditional Greek music and wants to get to dancing. We bow/curtsy and set about spinning around the open spaces under the speaker posted on a nearby pole. She's a dancing machine, my Shea. Throughout the afternoon I take her out on the "dance floor" more than four times. Once down to the formal stage where they give demonstrations of traditional Greek dances. She spins and grins, spins and grins. The beer in my stomach becomes a little unsteady but I'm laughing too hard to give a damn.
The day ends with one final gyro (my total festival count was 4 this year) and a quick swig of the last of my beer. As Tracy, Shea and I load up into the car, I'm warm, content, and FULL. Needless to say, Shea and I both fell asleep in the car on the way home. What a great day.
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