Coming Home

I am an international researcher. Okay, so I only went to Seattle, but that’s international, right? They have different food, different speed limits and I swear the money was designed by a colour-blind environmentalist. Anyway, having come back from my international jet setting (okay, there were no jets involved, but damn it, bus setting just doesn’t have the same ring to it), I thought I would share a few of my thoughts upon arriving home.

1. I am not meant to be a solo traveller. While I accomplished a lot in Seattle, my explorations fell a bit flat. Having someone to share the experience with is what makes adventures fun for me.
2. Vancouver is home. And I don’t mean that is what my driver’s license says. I mean, it is where my mind and heart are at rest. Seeing the skyline as we drove into the city made my heart rest easy.
3. The internet is an odd place. Even though I was online for most of the trip (although this meant no television as the internet only worked in one corner of my bedroom which had no tv), at least two of the people who I talk to most online said they liked it better when I was home and chatting. Somehow, where I was mattered, not just to me, but to them. Other people like to know you are where your mind and heart are at rest too, I guess.
4. I have a great life in Vancouver, filled with even greater people and while I won’t bore you by listing them all, rest assured that if you are reading this and you live in Vancouver, you are probably on the list. Whether you want to be or not.
5. Fear is best served in small portions. Let me explain. (as if you could stop me!). Travelling always makes me nervous. I feel like a child and I doubt that I will know what to do should I get on the wrong bus, talk to the wrong people, walk through the wrong part of town, etc. But lately, I have been learning that one of the keys to overcoming fear is that you only ever have to deal with the present moment. In fact, you can’t actually ever deal with anything else. Each scary thing is just imagination until it is there in front of you in the moment. And that moment is manageable. I mean, really truly manageable. Who knew? Well, you probably did, but maybe I’m just a slow learner. ;)
6. The best part of a trip is taking pictures that most people will not be as excited to see as you are to show them. I won’t bore you with them here, but I WILL post them on Facebook, so be forewarned.
7. Lastly, I really, really, really, like the Fiber One Poptarts and you can only get them in the US so far. And they have chocolate chip cookie cereal! There are some things in life that just aren’t fair. But, I’ll get over it. Now that I’m….home.

Learning to Wait...

Well, friends, it has been a long time since I have written anything, so I guess it’s about time (in more ways than one).

The last few months have been a difficult time. For those of you who don’t know, I have had ongoing headaches and dizziness for over two months now. After 3 weeks, I was told it was probably allergies, after 6 weeks, I was told it was probably sinus and stress. At 7 weeks, my right cheek when numb and I was sent to a neurologist. Two weeks later, I was also having numbness and tingling in my right hand and foot. The neurologist sent me for a CT scan.

Two weeks ago, I had the scan (and an allergic reaction to the contrast dye that they put through an IV into my veins!). Today, I found out that apparently my brain is normal. Who would have thought? Me. Normal. That’s one for the books, for sure.

Anyway, it looks like we are back to chalking this one up to sinus/allergies and stress. Which is fine by me. Beats a brain tumour any day of the week ;).

Probably the most stressful part of the last few months was waiting. Waiting to see if the headache/dizziness would go away on its own, waiting to see if the various medications would do the trick, then waiting to see the neurologist, waiting to get the CT scan, waiting in various Dr.’s offices, hospital waiting rooms, and then waiting for the results.

I know that nobody likes to wait, but I am especially bad at it. I worry, I fret, and I pace. If cells had feet, all of mine would be tapping. But, all of this waiting has taught me a few important lessons.

First, waiting is best done in the company of friends. I have never been more aware of how extremely fortunate I am to have great friends who will listen to my fears and phobias without judgement. Thanks, especially to J, S and my wonderful sister C for getting into my head and for taking me outside of it!

Second, waiting can eat you alive if you let it. It will eat up every breath and consume every thought. Waiting has a voracious appetite and will stop at nothing until it devours every moment until the dreaded/anticipated deadline arrives. But, life is bigger than waiting and living is the only way to stop it in its tracks.

Lastly, waiting is actually counterproductive. It serves no purpose. All of the energy that we spend on waiting is wasted energy. It has been a very gradual process, but I have learned to let go of the waiting and just live my life. I have realized that we often look to the future and miss out on experiencing fully the ‘in the meantime.’ I am learning to focus on the moment and live it! Life does not wait for us, and I’ll be damned if I’ll wait for it. ;)

Can you keep a secret?

Over the many years that I have spent as a professional student, I have uncovered a few secrets that no one tells you. I’m sure there is a law against actually speaking about them, but I didn’t read the full handbook, so I’m just going to plead ignorance if anyone asks. I think the public has a right to know.

Secret #1: The first year of grad school is not about teaching you anything. Nor is it about evaluating what you know. Or at least, that’s not the most important part. The first year of graduate school is really about seeing if you have the stamina and the confidence necessary to call yourself an expert.

It is a lot of work and very little sleep. You get to juggle huge amounts of reading with paid work and huge amounts of insecurity. All with the knowledge of fixed and looming deadlines just ahead. And you think “I can do this” and “I can sleep next year.” But, you walk through that first year, or at least you stagger through that first year, thinking no one understands. Everyone else seems to have it together. And if you are me, that means one thing. Fake it so that no one knows you are the only fraud in your cohort.

Then, when I became a PhD student, I decided that I wanted to help that one fraud that comes along each year. I wanted to give them the much needed support and empathy that I didn’t feel like I got when I was an MA student. So, I started a group for MA students, a place where they could come and talk about their concerns, share their work and get to know each other. I tried to be as honest about all my insecurities as I could. I wanted to draw out that one person, like me, who always felt like a fraud. To my surprise, the ones who didn’t seem to feel that way were always in the minority. Secret # 2: you are not the only fraud. Secret #3: If you band together with all the other frauds, no one will ever catch on. Secret #4: Confidence is just another word for faking it.

I barely remember the second year of my MA. I think that somewhere between the end of the first year and graduation, I did some research, wrote and rewrote a thesis and stood up in front of the judges and a jury of my peers and defended the damn thing. It isn’t because it was easy that I don’t remember it. It is because it was so traumatic. Here I was, having just survived my first year of classes, and my realization that I was indeed a huge fraud, and suddenly my supervisor looks at me and says “Now you are the expert. Go out and make knowledge.” No pressure. Secret #5: A year of graduate school does not make you an expert at anything. You immediately realize that admitting this to anyone will discredit you and they will probably send you back to do Year One over again. You keep your mouth shut. It’s all about survival, I tell you. Secret #6: They won’t send you back. Ask lots of questions. In order to hide my secret identity (Super Fraud), I asked lots of people one question each in hopes that they wouldn’t talk to each other and they would each only think I had only small holes in my vast library of knowledge. Yeah, right.

Probably the most recent secret I have learned, I didn’t learn until I was working on my PhD. Secret #7: You are not alone. No one gives you a list of potential friends when you enter ‘The Program.’ But trust me, they are all around you. Secret #8: This isn’t a competition, folks. No matter what anyone tells you. Over the last few years, I have been fortunate to have a group of friends who, not unlike a support group, are not afraid to tell me the truth and to hold me accountable. I try to do the same for them. I think it has made us all better students and maybe even better people. And all it took was a lot of honesty and a willingness to disclose a few secrets.

Romancing the Archive

As a graduate student, I am constantly asked about what I study. I have to admit that I am always a bit hesitant to provide any details. Perhaps I have seen too many polite nods and glassy eyes to be able to convince myself that what I do is sexy or provocative in any way. Saying that I do historical research seems to have a distinct sedative effect. But, given that I can’t see your eyes or your nodding head, I have decided now is the perfect time to talk about what it is exactly that I do.

As a historical researcher, I spend a lot of time pouring over old newspapers and other minutiae of the ‘everyday.’ And I have to say that there is something hauntingly beautiful about the archive. To the outside observer, I imagine I am simply a middle aged woman squinting at the screen as microfiche whirs by in an almost nauseating start and stop fashion. But in my world, I am a time traveller, watching time flash by on the screen. At a push of a button, I can freeze time, and step into another world. A world where the latest fashion from London is the English Sailor Hat in Khaki and where men’s trousers would set you back $2.00 to $4.50 depending on quality. It is a world where the sports section talks about cricket matches at Brockton Point and Lawn Tennis in Mount Pleasant. Welcome to the year 1900 in British Columbia. It is a world that I step into with ease and step out of with trepidation.

Usually I step in slowly, letting myself become accustomed to this new (old) world. First, I read the advertisements because even in 1900, my shopping addiction reigns. Then I’ll let my eyes wander carelessly across headlines until something catches my eye. Sometimes it is an old wedding picture. Other times, it is a hauntingly told half-story of murder and intrigue. My mind fills in the blanks in creative ways, turning the murder of a 17 year old girl by her 20 year old boyfriend into a tragic version of Romeo and Juliet. He says that she and he had a suicide pact, but he couldn’t bring himself to end his life after he had ended hers. He confesses to murder, but refuses to ever tell the reason. It is a story that deserves to be told, but one that remains hidden in the archive. It is not my story to tell. But, I am saddened that it is only half-told and by now totally forgotten.

The ghosts of the archive refuse to be silent. They wait for me and those like me to bring them to life. I am always aware of their presence and feel humbled to be the one who gets to tell their stories. But the archive is not all romance, tragic or heroic. It, like all worlds past and present holds the stories that are sometimes too painful to bear. The ugliness I see in this world tears at my heart. You see, it is also a world where the ‘little brown men’ are seen as fraudulent citizens, where immigrants of colour are referred to as ‘cargo.’ It is a world where the right to vote was dependent on the colour of one’s skin. In this world where a man could buy trousers for $2.00, a $100 fine was imposed to any ‘Collector of Votes’ who added the “names of Japanese, Chinese or Indians” to the voter’s list.

I walk in this world carefully. Sometimes the landmines that I uncover spring up with no warning in this world of cricket, lawn tennis and English Sailor hats. Other times, the danger is abundantly clear and although it always saddens me, it does not take my breath away in the same way. Good and bad, this is the world I work in. My commute spans not miles, but decades or centuries. My research participants are apparitions of forgotten memories and misplaced recollections. Out of the chaos, they rise. It is a world of beauty, intrigue and mystery. Welcome to my world.

Dirt

I love the smell of dirt. While many might argue that the smell of spring is the sweet smell of flowers in bloom, for me it is the rich earthy smells of fresh turned soil that signals the start of spring. Maybe it is my pollen allergies that make me reject the floral calling cards of spring. But, whatever it is, you can’t convince me that spring is here until I smell that rich heady scent of dirt.

When I smell dirt, see the deep dark colour, I want to grab a handful and feel its cool moist texture in my hand, I want to hold it close to my face, inhale deeply and smell the beginning of life. I want to squeeze it tightly in my fist, warm it with my own heat and then open my hand and watch it spill between my fingers and settle gently on the ground.

The smell of dirt is the smell of hidden potential. It is underestimated and undervalued. But it is patient and productive. It welcomes the seeds, those who happen there by accident, as well as those that are planted with forethought and deliberation. As the seeds begin to grow, the dirt shifts, accommodates, nurtures and embraces. It hardens and protects and then it accepts the breaks and fissures that are necessary for the seed to become a shoot, then a bud and finally burst into the flower of spring.

There is just so much that we can learn from dirt.

I’d like to buy a vowel please…

I like shopping. I love to shop for presents for other people. I adore shopping for presents for me. I especially like to find something I love on sale. But I even love to window shop, to look at all the pretty things in jewellery shop windows, even though I rarely have any desire to buy them. I guess I’m a bit of a shopaholic. But, the first step is admitting you have a problem, right? So, for those of you who are still in denial about your own shopping addiction, I have decided to compile my own list of the top ten signs that you are a shopaholic:

1. The words ‘new’ and ‘improved’ bring tears of joy to your eyes.
2. As you are walking by your favourite shoe store, the sales clerk waves or greets you by name. (Okay, who am I kidding? I never just can walk BY my favourite shoe store!)
3. When choosing your dentist, accountant or manicurist, you always choose the one closest to the mall.
4. You spend more than 10 minutes a day trying to think of things you need at the store.
5. When you can’t think of anything, you misplace, shred, or eat the last of something just so you can go try to find the ‘new’ or ‘improved’ version.
6. You decide where to meet your best friend for lunch based on which of your favourite stores are nearby.
7. There is at least one unused item in your pantry/closet/bookcase that you were sure you would eat/wear/read but is now past its ‘best before date.’
8. You can smell a shoe store a block away.
9. The women or men you used to undress with your eyes, you now fantasize about re-dressing in the latest fashions.
10. You are happy to admit you have a shopping addiction because you saw this great self-help book on the subject and it was half-price.

The Accidental Doctor

I never wanted to be a Doctor when I grew up. Heck, I didn’t even want to be a nurse (although there are pictures that imply otherwise). And yet somehow, here I am on the road to a doctorate. And to make matters worse, I am going to be the kind of Doctor that people respond to with disappointment. I’ve already seen hints of this type of response, so I know it’s coming. “Oh, I see. You aren’t going to be a REAL Doctor. You will just have a PhD.” Just. Right.

I often find myself wondering how I got here. So, I thought maybe I’d map out my journey as a bit of a reference point. I would like to report that my academic career came about because of a great vision that I have worked tirelessly toward fulfilling. But in truth, it really amounts to a little luck, a lot of happy accidents, a few (okay, maybe more than a few) demons and no small amount of perseverance.

To be honest, I went back to school because I had run out of options. My marriage had passed its expiry date, the business school I had attended went belly-up about a week before I was to start my final practicum and a friend’s business that I was planning to work for didn’t quite get off the ground. And so I thought a two year diploma seemed like just the ticket.

Unsure about whether or not I had it in me to finish a full two year program, I nevertheless signed up for my first semester at a reputable ‘open’ university, where I could work at my own pace and never have to step into a classroom (except for the occasional exam). Finishing the first semester gave me the confidence to sign up for a second term. Completing that gave me the confidence to transfer to a local university college and I stepped bravely into a real classroom for the first time in almost 20 years. Nothing had changed, really. It looked a lot like high school classes I had attended. Lots of fresh young faces, lots of whispered crushes and in the midst of it all a lot of frustrated teachers hoping to inspire a passion for learning in at least a few of these students. The only thing that seemed out of place was me.

I think I succeeded more because I couldn’t keep up with the chaotic exuberance of youth than out of any special talent. Studying was easier than trying to keep up with either the drama or the endless energy of those who somehow juggled academics with dating, dancing and drama. And so a two year degree turned into a four year one. And suddenly, in my fourth year, endless streams of people informed me that my options were limited with a degree in sociology. And by limited, they meant pretty much non-existent. Grad school was apparently the way to go. I applied, sure I would be turned down and have to spend the rest of my life working the drive-thru window at McDonald’s.

When my letter had not arrived weeks after a friend had received her acceptance letter, my friend encouraged me to email the department to find out for sure. I received a response almost immediately, telling me that an ‘offer’ had been sent weeks before and that a new letter would be sent immediately. I was terrified, elated and filled with self-doubt, a mixture of feelings that have stayed with me to this day.

Grad school is a place filled with terror. The constant evaluation is terrifying on its own. Add to that the expectation that as a student you will come up with new and original ideas to fuel a machine that is designed to transform ‘new and original’ into fodder for the post-‘new and original.’ It is truly a terrifying process. What if I can’t come up with something new and original? What if it has all been done before? What if I am the grad student who came to the machine just when the supply of new and original ran out?

And then an idea comes, that maybe can be passed off as new and original. We make our own little marks on the world, and the elation passes over us in great waves. We can make a difference. Our discoveries and/or insights, no matter how small they may seem, might just make a difference in how people see the world. If someone reads them. If they don’t die a slow death in the microfilm library. If we can put them into coherent sentences to present in classrooms or conference halls.

From time to time, I still do a search in the library to see if my Master’s thesis is still there. My own personal collection of new and original ideas. It is what fuels both my hope and my terror as I sit here once more, searching for another new and original idea. Maybe I’ll happen upon it in an archive somewhere, or maybe it will come to me in a dream. Most likely, it will come to me as all good things do, through perseverance, hope and a lot of luck.

Looking Good Naked

I was recently flipping through the channels trying to find something to occupy my fuzz coated brain. I happened across a show called “How to Look Good Naked,” which is a makeover show produced in the UK. But it is a different kind of makeover show than you might think, unless of course you have seen it, then it is probably exactly what you think it is.

In any case, I was expecting the same formula that you find on most ‘makeover’ shows. One overweight woman + personal trainer/surgery/diet intervention = happily ever after. Instead, it is a show that has the audacity to tell women that their lumps, bumps and bulges are normal and even *gasp* desirable. Women with real bodies bare all. Bulging bellies, ‘thunder thighs’ and breasts that are too small, too big or too asymmetrical are all fair fodder. It is a makeover show with a twist. The women, all unhappy with their various over/under abundances of flesh are forced to face their reflections in a three-way mirror. This is the part of the show that is the most painful to watch.

Many of the women turn away from the reflection of their (half) naked bodies, unable to meet their own gaze in the mirror. Others bravely examine and recount their inadequacies for the audience, tears often streaming down their faces. As much as part of me is adverse to the capitalistic voyeurism, I am also mesmerized and I see incredible bravery in these acts.

I expected the host to offer liposuction, dietary advice or an all expense paid trip to the fat farm. Instead, he uses a variety of (sometimes problematic) exercises to teach them that their bodies are just fine, even beautiful. The women learn how to dress their bodies in ways that make them feel good about their bodies. They are often confronted with their own unrealistic perceptions of what their bodies really look like. In the end, they are given the opportunity to pose naked for a photo shoot. The photos are beautiful.

I know that these so-called reality shows only provide part of the story. The emotional makeovers that the women undergo may simply be fabrications of some producer/director or corporation. But the best part of this show is that it offers women an alternative to the same thin, blond, unmarked, unblemished version of beauty that they are offered every day. In addition to the women who volunteer to undergo the makeover, the program also unabashedly shows the bodies and faces of women who celebrate their bellies, thighs and buttocks, stretch marks and all. They come in all shapes, sizes, colours and ages. They dance and laugh, in various states of undress for the camera.

When was the last time you stood naked and celebrated the beauty of your body? Maybe a public celebration of your cellulite might seem out of reach, but maybe a party with you and the mirror is in order. I’ve already penciled mine in. Next week….after I shave my legs, get a manicure and buy some candles.

This is what 3am looks like…

I am pondering at 3:00 am the relationship between mind and body. I am trying to wrap my mind around what that relationship is and at the same time weave together two conversations that I had today, one with a treasured friend and the other with my body.

I came to the rather profound realization, during my conversation with my friend J, that there is a deep disconnection in my life, a fracture which I can trace back many years. During my conversation with J, I tried to explain this disconnection as two opposite poles which at various times of my life I have straddled. I have never felt ‘big’ enough to occupy both at the same time. When we talked, I found it hard to identify what those two poles were, and all I could think of was ‘Intellect’ and ‘Relational,’ but that didn’t seem right.

Then during yoga, I had a conversation with my body. Before you think I’m totally crazy, let me try to explain. If you are a woman, you have undoubtedly read a thousand magazine articles or books that have told you the importance of loving your body. In yoga, we are often told to listen to our bodies. I have never really critically examined what it means for us to do either. But what is implied in both is that somehow our mind, our senses and our hearts are separate from our body. Perhaps they are housed within it, but it is with the mind that we know our bodies, with our senses that we listen to it and with our heart that we love (or hate) it. Now of course we know that our brain, our ears and our hearts are all part of our body, but still a separation remains.

But today, I imagined my soul and my mind coursing through my veins. No, I felt it. For a brief moment, I experienced a deep inhabitance of my body. I felt connected in a way that is difficult for me to now explain. But I liked it. A lot.

At the risk of giving you blogging whiplash, I want to turn back to the earlier conversation with my friend. I was trying to explain to her my reticence around dating and relationships. I believe my past relationship failures have had a lot to do with my inability to embrace, at the same time, the intellectual me and the relational me. Growing up, the struggle was whether to be smart or pretty, because I knew somehow that being both was not a possibility. So, with men, and often with friends, I made the sometimes conscious and other times unconscious choice to turn off the brain whenever I turned on my heart. Because somehow along the way, I learned a destructive lesson. I learned that when I opened my mind to people, when I spilled my brain along with my heart, I have often been rejected. Here, I am seen as ‘too intense,’ ‘too intimidating,’ or simply as thinking too much. And so, I compartmentalized.

I’ve lived my life on competing paths. I walk down the path of intellect, a lonely path if there ever was one, afraid of opening my heart or my body because I feel as if opening either will diminish my ability to be taken seriously. Alternatively, I walk down the path of the relational, where my mind stagnates while my heart skips a beat.

I know that I am at risk here of sounding like a patient on your couch of psychoanalysis, but bear with me just a little longer. At 2:00 am, I realized that the two conversations that I was having were essentially the same conversations. Both conversations were about the separation of mind and body. Now, I am not talking about the body as simply an empty, physical shell. I think, when I am talking about the body, I am talking about how I present myself sensually, playfully and openly, in a word, relationally.

So, at 3:00am, I had an epiphany of sorts, or maybe it was/is simply a foggy, lack of sleep induced delusion. You decide. I’m far too tired to make that decision. But, what I realized was that my mind has always inhabited my bloodstream, my nervous system, my muscles, my organs and my bones. What I felt during yoga class was not a new connection, but a recognition of what has always existed. I can no more separate the two, than I can peel away my skin and prance about free of its encumbrance.

And now it is almost 4:30 am and I must take my sleep-deprived mind/body to bed. But I want to leave you with one last thought. Both paths that I took, I walked in my physical body. Each path I navigated with my mind. It was only my delusions and sometimes my skillful deceptions that allowed me to think otherwise. Who I am and who I let you see are not always the same and that is what needs to change. I want to know deeply and love fiercely. Both mean risks and neither can happen unless I allow both to. So, here I go, brain bits floating through my veins. Don’t even try to tell me that isn’t the way it works, because quite frankly I won’t believe you. :P

Foodsome and the Food Slum

Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about food. True, this is not something new, but it did compel me to write a blog dedicated to the stuff. I love food. There is something comforting and sensual about food that nothing else can replace. There are no ulterior motives with food. There is no selfishness or possessiveness with food. A hotdog will not fault you for choosing the buffet next door when you are really hungry. It is all about satisfaction.

Food is about satisfying not only hunger but whims. You could almost say that food is whimsy all packaged up in a Styrofoam take-out container. It really truly just makes me happy. I know you are supposed to feel guilty when you eat too much or eat the wrong things, but I think this is one area of my life where the guilt button is broken. I like what I like and avoid what I don’t. I make no apologies for my love of spicy food, nor for my shunning of lima beans. It just is what it is. Period.

I have a number of friends who seem to share my love of edibles. I rarely really find it easy to connect with people who are ambivalent about food, in fact. Really? You don’t care what you are eating? It’s just nourishment? C’mon. Really? There just isn’t anywhere else to go in that conversation.

But I have one friend in particular who shares my passion for food. Let’s call him ‘Steve.’ This may or may not be his real name, but regardless, ‘Steve’ loves food as much as me. Maybe even more. He’s what you might call a ‘foodie’. The first week I met him, he introduced me to Thai, Malaysian, Ethiopian and Cuban food. It was a food orgy. I knew I’d found my food soul mate. Until recently.

Recently, I have discovered that ‘Steve’ (again, this may or may not be his real name ;)), is a bit of a food snob. When you say words like ‘hot dog,’ ‘buffet’ or ‘Mongolian bbq’ he literally blanches (which, if you know ‘Steve’ is saying a lot). I, on the other hand, light up when I see the beckoning lights of a buffet or smell the sweet onions frying up next to the ‘tube steaks’ on the grill. Sometimes, food slumming gives me as much pleasure as imbibing on our world culinary tours. If it tastes good and I don’t have to cook it, I’ll eat it up. Food is an adventure. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend my safari in a five star hotel. Or in a kitchen, for that matter!

Food. Someone should build a monument. Enough said.

Another ‘point of view’

I’ve been thinking a lot lately. And no, this isn’t really news. It’s more of an excuse for why I haven’t written anything here in so long. Quite frankly, I haven’t been able to decide what to write about.

Usually I find that because of my overly analytical nature and my intense desire for personal development, I see every bump in the road as a sign that this is an area I have to work on, and there have been a number of bumps in the road. But I don’t want to talk about those today. I want to talk about the whole idea of personal development.

You see, the problem with personal development, at least the way I see it, is that no matter how I phrase it, it always has the implication that I am not good enough, smart enough, or quite simply, that I am not enough. When one is always focusing on getting better, it is often easy to miss out on the progress you have made thus far.

Now, I am not advocating an end to personal progress! I just think that it is really important for us to find peace with where we are, who we are. I want to analogize this, not to a journey, because that implies a fixed destination, but more to an exploration. When we are exploring, we are always open to digressions, deviations and detours. I like that a lot.

I have a confession. I was the hiker who always wanted to stop halfway to check out the view. Honestly, I was most likely just out of breath or too tired or lazy and unmotivated to keep moving at a constant speed, but I think this is where I developed my attitude toward life.

When you stop half-way up a mountain (and yes, I did climb a mountain once, just ask my sister, she was there! [okay, it wasn’t a HUGE mountain, but it is still a mountain!]). Anyway, when you stop half-way up a mountain to ‘look around,’ you not only get to see how beautiful everything is around you, but you also get to see how far you have come. You get to see the bottom, where you started, make note of every rock you held onto for support, every bush that flew back to smack you in the face when the person in front of you forgot you were behind her, and the faint markings of the path that your feet have made on the way up.

Maybe for some people, stopping halfway makes them lose their momentum. I’ve heard that if you take your eye off the prize for even a moment, your progress is not only slowed but you also risk losing sight of where you are going. But, I think that sometimes we are so focused on where we need to be that we miss seeing not only how far we’ve come, but how beautiful the view is from where we are.

Today, I am celebrating my rocks and my paths. Last week, while writing my week-long comprehensive exam, I was inspired by all the support that was poured out to me as I struggled with exhaustion, rejection and discouragement. Every single person who reached out to me was a rock that I was able to hang on to and pull myself back up. I am so very grateful for all of you, for the mini-oranges, for the chocolate wishes, for the constant good thoughts and for the gentle and sometimes not so gentle pushing.

This week, I have had the opportunity to take a look at the faint path that I have worn across the landscape. I have been able to take the time to envision the not only the often jagged path that I have wandered, but the strengths I have gained along the way. I am not the same shy and awkward woman who began this exploratory journey all those years ago. But, I am glad that she took the risk and just started walking. And I think I owe it to her and to all of you to take a bit of time to enjoy the view. Maybe it is these stopping points, these new ‘view-points’ or ‘points of view’ that fuel us for the next leg of the journey, wherever that may lead us. I hope so, because I am looking forward to the next view-point already!

To Do

Yesterday was one of those days. I got home, logged onto my computer and there was so much coming at me that all of a sudden I found myself in a state of panic. My date for writing my comp exam was set, and I realized that I was missing crucial books. I realized that my all important Program Record had not been taken care of, as it was supposed to have been. The file I promised to send to my colleague/boss/friend had mysteriously vanished from my computer. I had a list of tasks that seemed to explode out of the sides of my laptop and I swear began reaching bony fingers in my direction. I felt the cold fingers of panic rise up in my chest. My stomach tried valiantly to take up residence in my throat. The resulting effect was that I wanted to throw up, but trying to catch a breath took priority.

All of the panic, fear and desperation bubbled up inside of me and I kept letting little bits out at a time. Explaining to my wonderful friend J that I lost her file. Telling my other great friend S that I was terrified about the looming deadline for my comp exam. Emailing colleagues and friends to ask for help with upcoming commitments. Support came from all directions and gradually my list of missing books began to shrink, the file once again materialized in a ‘temp’ folder somewhere and my list of ‘to do’s gradually got a little bit shorter.

So, I could end here and maybe you could glean from all of this that a) I shouldn’t have gone into such a tailspin in the first place, as I have LOTS of support available, b) it’s okay to lean on other people when things feel out of your control or c) a clearer mind is a more productive mind. All of these are great lessons to learn, and lessons that I keep bumping up against, and I believe will keep bumping up against until I finally ‘get it.’ But, something else occurred to me today while I was at yoga (while at yoga I tend to learn a lot when I am actually supposed to be learning other things).

During quiet time, a time we are supposed to clear our minds of all the outside stresses and listen to the messages our bodies are trying to communicate to us, I was making lists. The dreaded ‘to do’ list was clicking away in my brain. I kept thinking about all I had “to do.” I need to do the dishes that are piling up in my sink. I need to do the reading for my comp so I don’t feel so unprepared. I need to do some grocery shopping so that I have more choice than crackers or mini-wheats. I need to do my TA job, my RA job, my Mommy job. I need to do.

And then I stopped, tried to turn off the *click, click* of the mental list and listen to my body. My breath echoed ‘to do,’ my heart thudded ‘to do.’ And I wondered why I couldn’t turn off the ‘to do’ list. Why I was so overwhelmed by what I had ‘to do.’ And then I realized that I am often so busy do-ing that I have forgotten what it means to experience. I decided right then and there, that I was going to go home and throw away my ‘to do’ list and make a ‘to experience’ list in its place. And tonight when I walked home in the pouring rain, I didn’t worry about getting from Point A to Point B. Instead, I experienced the cold exhilarating rain on my face, felt it drip down the back of my neck and send shivers down my spine.

So, tonight I made my list, not of what I have to do tomorrow, but of what I get to experience. The list of tasks didn’t change, but my outlook did. So, let me ask you: What are you going to experience tomorrow?

I’m ‘It’

I was recently ‘tagged’ for a meme. I have to admit that when it happened, I was a little bemused, as I had never heard of a meme prior to being tagged with one. Rather than admit that I had no idea what a meme was, I went online to do a little research. Apparently, a meme (according to Chrisg.com) is “a self-propagating unit of thought that is spread from one host to another.” In other words, it is a game of virtual idea ‘tag.’ The subject of this particular ‘meme’ is influential teachers. So, if I am understanding this correctly, I am to write about influential teachers in my life and upon doing so, have the obligation to tag someone else (or forever be ‘it’ and no one wants to be ‘it’ forever, although I have never been quite clear on why. ‘It’ does not seem such a bad thing to be, other than in the obvious ‘neutered’ sense of the word). But I digress.

As I mentioned, this meme requires me to ‘recall influential teachers.’ So, I started thinking back to my early education. I was not what you would call an academic success. To be honest, I don’t really remember many of my teachers and certainly don’t remember feeling deeply inspired by any of my middle school or high school classes. And in the primary grades, the only teacher I really recall is the one who publicly shamed me by SPANKING me at the front of the class, so she certainly does not deserve to be mentioned in any profound way.

I am sure that in my primary and secondary education I had many wonderful teachers. I am equally sure they each inspired hundreds, even thousands of minds. But for me, graduation was not a celebration of academic success, but a doorway out of a world I never quite felt like I belonged in. When I walked through that door, I certainly had no intention of going back into this world.

And yet, here I am in year three of my PhD. And for the first time in my life, I really do feel like I am in the right place at the right time. I can certainly point to a number of wonderful university professors who taught me to see the world through new eyes, but although they deserve much of the credit for my academic success (such that it is), I think it is often other kinds of teachers who start us on these journeys who often get overlooked.

My journey to here started a very long time ago. The road was covered in debris and there were many times that I could not see even a foot in front of me. But, I had the wonderful gift of a teacher who was always one step ahead of me, clearing the path, holding my hand and sometimes pushing me out of the way when danger lurked in the darkness. I had an advantage as I watched her navigate the road before me and I always admired her steadfast determination as she conquered both her demons and mine. I wanted to be just like my big sister. I craved her self-knowledge and often found myself mimicking her, choosing her favourite colour as my own and trying hard to fit inside her dreams and desires. I loved to live in her shadow. It was cool and comfortable and safe.

But, the more I watched her, the more I came to realize that what made her such a wonderful teacher was not that she pulled me along behind her, but that she marched forward on her own path. I wasn’t meant to follow along behind, but instead to learn from her how to clear my own way. I would like to call her fearless, but the greatest lesson she taught me was not to be fearless, but to be courageous, for courage is not the absence of fear, but the determination in the face of fear. Now that is a lesson worth learning.

So, my sister cleared a path for me, but she also taught me the importance of clearing my own way. But I had another teacher along the way who taught me that I was strong enough to do just that.

Have you ever watched a small child take their first steps? They hold on tightly to a leg, a table or a finger and then suddenly they simply let go and triumphantly move first one leg and then the other. Their excitement at having accomplished these first few steps bubbles over, their joy oozes out of every pore and then suddenly fear enters their eyes and promptly propels them toward the ground.

When I first met ‘S’ ten years ago, I was just beginning to strike out on my own. I was like that small child, taking my first steps. I was triumphant and frightened, but determined to keep moving forward. The problem was, that my legs weren’t quite sure what direction they wanted to go in!

I really believe that one of the greatest gifts a teacher can give you is the ability to see yourself in a new way. I remember ‘S’ telling me that I was smart. Brilliant, even. Me? Smart? I barely graduated high school and certainly none of my teachers had ever called me brilliant. But here was this man who listened to what I had to say and thought I was smart, who attributed my curiosity to brilliance. I laughed when he first told me that I was a smart woman. But he didn’t laugh. He just looked surprised that I didn’t know what he saw as an obvious truth.

It took a long time for me to realize that it wasn’t his vision that was distorted, but my own. He encouraged me to go back to school, not to BECOME smart, but because he believed I WAS smart. And so I went to school, not because I believed him, but because I trusted him. Each step I took, like a small child, I looked up at him to see if I was heading in the right direction. But he refused to point out the way, always trusting that I would find it on my own. And I did.

I have come to believe that the best teachers in life teach us to see the world in new ways and teach us to see ourselves in new ways. I can only hope that someday I can inspire my students, in the classroom or outside of it, in the same ways.

If you are reading this, (and you aren’t the tagger!), I encourage you to reflect on your teachers. Tag. You’re It!

Living Young in an Old Body

Throughout my life, people have always remarked at how young I look. On the day of my wedding, an old man waved his cane at me and admonished me that I was too young to be getting married. When I was 34, I routinely got asked for ID at the bar or when buying cigarettes. Even now, I often get shocked looks when people find out that I have two grown ‘children.’ I’m certainly not complaining, and I hope you won’t think this is bragging either.

I love looking ‘young for my age.’ I feel young for my age. Perhaps because I surround myself with beautiful young people everyday. But there is one thing I miss about actually BEING young. I miss the confidence that I used to have in my body. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am very fortunate to be in relatively good health and to enjoy the ability to move my body across the Dance Dance Revolution mat with reckless abandon on most days. But, over the last ten years, my body has started to rebel.

It started with a lump in my throat that the doctor soon diagnosed as a wonky thryroid. Well, that’s not exactly what he called it, but the weeks and months that followed made my body do dreadfully embarrassing things, so I feel I have the right to call it whatever I want to. My face flushed and I had ‘hot flashes’ when I went from a cool room to a warm one. My skin started to get dry and flakey and it took an inordinate amount of will just to drag my butt out of bed. But the worst part was that the Doctor told me that I would have to take thyroid medication FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. At the time, I was devastated. A life sentence of little green pills. But then I realized that taking a pill a day really wasn’t a difficult task, and I was starting to feel ‘normal’ again. Things were not so bad.

Then about nine years ago, after a lovely five course Valentines Day dinner, I got this small pain in my lower back. I tried to ‘walk it off’ but it spread to my midsection and eventually to my whole body. I walked, threw up, writhed around, tried to keep my then partner awake to share in my misery, and eventually around 6am the pain slowly started to subside, I slept and chalked it up to food poisoning. Until it happened again 6 months later. This time, I ended up in the emergency room. I had a gall stone.

The Doctor humiliated me, by informing me that it wasn’t uncommon in 'at risk' groups, which he gleefully identified as the FOUR F’s. Female. Fat. Fertile. Forty. C’mon! I certainly was willing to cop to the first three, but I was only thirty six! That Doctor certainly had some nerve! Anyway, he recommended that I see a surgeon to have not only the offending gallstone removed, but its lovely home removed as well.

I ate a very low fat diet while I awaited the call for surgery. I waited three months and when I still hadn’t heard from them, I went back to my Doctor. Someone had forgotten to contact the surgeon. My Doctor asked if I wanted them to contact the surgeon now. By then I had lost 40 lbs, hadn’t had a gall bladder attack and felt great, so I decided to keep my little friend and his house. Now, I’m careful about my diet, and although I gained back a lot of the weight when I quit smoking, I have managed to keep the attacks to about one a year by watching my fat intake.

Then three years ago, I came home after a lovely brunch, sat down at my computer to get some work done and started to feel odd. Excited, is how I can best describe the sensation. But then, I realized that this excitement was actually a racing pulse. I took a deep breath. A few deep breaths. I took my pulse again and realized that it was still racing madly. I went to my Doctor’s office.

He took my pulse. It was 143. That’s double my normal pulse. He gave me a funny little pill which calmed my mind, but not my heart. He called an ambulance and away we went to the emergency room. An hour later, my pulse dropped to normal and I left the hospital with a handful of pills in case it happened again and various lab requisition forms which drained me of various bodily fluids and had me wear a heart monitor for a few days. Everything came back ‘normal.’ Apparently, it was a glitch. It happens. It will probably never happen again. Just a reminder that my body has a mind of its own.

Now, why am I telling you all this? It’s pretty personal stuff, I know. It’s not that I am ready to admit that I am old. It is not an admonition for all you young’uns to take better care of your bodies (though had I not consumed such huge amounts of fat and had I not smoked like a chimney, I’m sure I could have staved off some of these moments for at least awhile longer). But this rather long drawn out story is just another moment of ‘stage setting.’

Because yesterday, yet another indignity. A piece of me just fell off! That isn’t supposed to happen, right? But, there I was, eating a single square of chocolate and a piece of my tooth just fell off. I swear I did not bite down on a large nut or use my teeth to pry open a beer bottle. But suddenly I was chewing, not chocolate, but a piece of my own tooth. I was devastated.

After calling my dentist and setting up an appointment, I proceeded to spend the afternoon feeling sorry for myself. I can deal with glands deciding to halt production. I just sent in new workers in the form of a little green pill. I can handle a new friend in my gall bladder, because he taught me to eat healthier and that if I treat my body with respect, it respects me back. I can even put up with the little glitches, because really surprises and oddities are what make us all unique. But, if parts are now going to randomly fall off, I’ll tell you right now, I am not going to stand for it. I knew I should have opted for the extended warranty. Well, all I can say is that it’s a damn good thing my Dentist is cute. ;)

Confessions from Annotation Hell

I have to make a few confessions. Confession #1: Although I am only two annotations away from completing this stage of my second comprehensive exam, I am overwhelmed to the point that I fear I may never finish. This morning I sat down on my couch to do a re-write of one of my two remaining annotations. I reached for my copy of ‘The Location of Culture’, by Homi Bhabha, and realized that I had packed it into my purse so I could review it over lunch yesterday. The fact that my book was not as readily accessible as I had anticipated sent me spiraling towards a state of anxiety and borderline panic (despite the fact that my purse was on the other end of the couch and therefore in easy reach). But, you will be proud to know that I did in fact reach over and grab my purse, haul out the much anticipated copy of Bhabha’s book and begin to read and write. And then I felt the tightening in my stomach again as the words started to blur on the page.

Confession #2: Homi Bhabha makes me want to throw up. Now, I’m not saying that I don’t think that he has a lot of great things to say. I’m just saying that his greatness is sometimes lost on me. I start to read his text and I feel the excitement build, because I KNOW that he is saying something profound. My heart starts to beat faster as my mind runs at full speed trying to keep up with his profundity. I’m doing mental gymnastics, twisting my brain into shapes that I’m only grateful that no one has asked my body to replicate. And then it happens. Someone has opened a trap door and I am falling into a dark abyss, reaching out to grab the familiar words that fall with me. I know that the more obscure words will slip through my fingers and my only hope is to grab for the safe and solid words, hope that they can break my fall before I hit rock bottom and have to climb my way upwards again.

By the time I grab hold of those familiar words and halt my flailing descent into the darkness, I realize that just ahead of me, Bhabha is spewing out “rhetorical strategies of hybridity” and demonstrating that “forces of social authority and subversion or subalternity may emerge in displaced, even decentred strategies of signification.” I want to throw up again. I let go and fall and it feels great. No flailing. No reaching. No mental gymnastics. Just quiet, dark freefall.

Confession #3: When I freefall, this is where I land. So, if I don’t stop writing, and you don’t stop reading, I may never finish this damned annotation. Oh, but if anyone has a copy of Bhabha for Dummies, please, please, please send it my way!

At loose ends...

I’m feeling restless. Now, this isn’t exactly the same as being bored. I think I’m feeling what my mom used to call ‘at loose ends.’ I’m not really sure what that etymology of that phrase is, where it came from or even what it means, but it certainly feels right to me at the moment.

I am all loose ends, dangling uselessly. I feel like no matter what direction I head in, I am still walking with all these loose ends just hanging out for everyone to see. Now, that’s an odd picture, isn’t it? It’s the only one I can paint here that seems to capture at all what it is that I am feeling.

Maybe it is because lately I’ve been thinking about love. I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’m really not very good at it, at least not in the romantic sense. I absolutely love my kids, my family and my friends. Beyond that, I guess you could call me a late bloomer. Or at least that is what I like to think on my more optimistic days.

But on less optimistic days, I start to think that some people are artistically inclined, some people are mathematically inclined, others are romantically inclined and the lucky ones get to have more than one inclination. I, on the other hand, have limited artistic talents, am mathematically stunted and romantically DEclined.

So, what can I do? I’ve had friends tell me that I overanalyze things. Maybe they are right, but my analysis component doesn’t seem to have an off switch. It’s how I’m hard wired. Other friends have told me that my standards are just too high. I guess a pulse is too much to ask for?

So, whenever I start to think about falling in love, I realize that maybe I will always be at loose ends. And it makes me a little sad and a little restless. But I know there are worse things than being alone. It certainly is better than having those ends all tied up in knots with the wrong person. Settling is just not an option. Settling? I’m a frayed knot.