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.