Yesterday found me running late for church. Don’t ask me why; I woke up in plenty of time. It seems the fine art of time suckage has followed me even to this stage in my life.
Anyway, at 10:00 a.m., I realize that I am not going to make church on time, so I decide to pick a church that has an 11:00 a.m. service. It will be an adventure. I drive to the Blue Roof (Presbyterian), where we attend an AA meeting on Thursdays. Just as I remembered, the service starts at 11:00 a.m. Except on the 5th Sunday of the month, when services start at 10:00 am. I peer into the window of the sanctuary (from afar, of course), and services have already started. It is 10:20 a.m. Damn 5th Sunday.
So I drive over to the humongous Lutheran church on Dale Mabry. The big sign in front of the building proclaims that services start at 11:00 a.m. I stroll up to the door, notice that I am the only one outside, and hear the faint sounds of … preaching. I eye the usher warily. “What time does the service start?,” I inquire. “At 11:00. Except on the fifth Sunday. Then it starts at 10:00.” It is 10:30. Shit.
Oh, but I have more churches in my arsenal. Don’t forget that, through AA, I have completed the tour of Carrollwood churches. Ah, the joys of the fellowship. Off to another Presbyterian church, located conveniently close to the AA meeting my beloved is attending on this fine Sunday morn. Yeah, except services started at 10:30 a.m. It is now 10:45. Surely God is playing a practical joke. Ha. Ha. Funny, God.
With a sigh, I turn my car around and head toward the Methodist church that I just drove by. The sign said services start at 11:00. But now I find myself skeptical of the sign’s knowledge of what the hell is going on.
I pull in, which is not a problem because there is no one there. Okay, okay. I exaggerate. But really, only a handful of cars. Good Lord, these folks need to pull something out for me. And they do… all 30 of them, many of them octogenarians. It might have been a little Blood of the Lamb for me, but at least I made it to church. Finally.
Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?
* Title paraphrased from a billboard on I-75. Seriously. Gotta love the Bible Belt.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saucy
Today, I decided to provide a boost to our economy by .... wait for it... shopping. Okay, okay. It wasn't some sort of altruistic decision to help our country as much as it was a craving for new clothes. I mean, the clothes make the man...er, woman... right?
The feeling of buying new clothes was nothing short of intoxicating. During this current phase of self-exploration, I have unearthed a desire to be alternately flirty and bold. I desire, with all of the longing that that word conjures, to feel sexy. Sometimes that means sexy-coy; sometimes it means sexy-funky. Primarily, though, I want to be saucy... in my words, my dress, my attitude. I am finding a new level of self-assuredness, and I want my style to reflect my discovery.
Plus, you know, there is that whole boosting the economy bit... Just doing my part.
The feeling of buying new clothes was nothing short of intoxicating. During this current phase of self-exploration, I have unearthed a desire to be alternately flirty and bold. I desire, with all of the longing that that word conjures, to feel sexy. Sometimes that means sexy-coy; sometimes it means sexy-funky. Primarily, though, I want to be saucy... in my words, my dress, my attitude. I am finding a new level of self-assuredness, and I want my style to reflect my discovery.
Plus, you know, there is that whole boosting the economy bit... Just doing my part.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Keep Coming Back
As I sat in the AA meeting tonight, I realized that sometimes people become attached to the persona that they typically project... and sometimes that persona doesn't really do them justice. Every group needs a smart ass. But the when wisecracks and insults grossly overshadow the message, then each share just becomes a mini-theater of ego. Which is unfortunate, when really, behind the shadow play of barbed words and caustic wit, there lies a sensitive, wise person who genuinely loves the people that are around him.
Would it be too much to ask to let that persona come to the meeting every once in a while? We would like that persona to keep coming back.
Would it be too much to ask to let that persona come to the meeting every once in a while? We would like that persona to keep coming back.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
In Which I Grumble...
My students rock. Usually.
Even though 15 years separates my world from theirs, I still readily relate to them. College was my first real venture into figuring out who I was and who I wanted to be. Each experience crackled with intensity... every moment seemed somehow significant. I see that same passion in most of my students. I gravitate toward it. I try to mirror their enthusiasm, albeit my enthusiasm is for writing and theirs is for, well, living. My perspective on life as a journey makes me more of a co-traveler than an authority figure, which works pretty darn well, if I do say so myself.
Except when I get fed up.
Next week is conference week with my students. I will spend 20 minutes with each of them. I have 88 students. Go on. Do the math. That is over 29 hours of conferencing next week. Even though conferences completely drain me, I look forward this one-on-one time with my students, to volley ideas and to collaborate on their work. This passes as fun for me (I know I am lame, but see above: My students rock).
Back to the Lashout of 2009: One of my students complained that none of the remaining conference times were times that he was on campus. So sad. That looks like an extra trip to school for him. Then he said, "Why would I want to drive 30 minutes for a 20 minute conference?"
Oh no. No sir, you did not. You did NOT just tell me that my time is not as valuable as your time. So, I told him to skip the conference... then I could have back that 20 minutes of my life, and he could go on with his day. He piped up again. Fuming, I was fuming. And, in the middle of the classroom buzzing with 18 year olds working on group projects, I told him he was really pissing me off and he needed to stop right then. And I meant it. RIGHT THEN.
I am willing to go to great lengths to make sure my students learn something, to help build their self-confidence, to develop their lackluster writing skills. And I don't expect them to name their firstborn after me or even to bake me cupcakes on the last day of school (although that would be nice). But I do expect to be respected. And in no way is it wise for them to imply that their time is more valuable than mine.
I may seem small and friendly, but so does a chihuahua, right before it clamps down on your hand. That's all I am saying.
Even though 15 years separates my world from theirs, I still readily relate to them. College was my first real venture into figuring out who I was and who I wanted to be. Each experience crackled with intensity... every moment seemed somehow significant. I see that same passion in most of my students. I gravitate toward it. I try to mirror their enthusiasm, albeit my enthusiasm is for writing and theirs is for, well, living. My perspective on life as a journey makes me more of a co-traveler than an authority figure, which works pretty darn well, if I do say so myself.
Except when I get fed up.
Next week is conference week with my students. I will spend 20 minutes with each of them. I have 88 students. Go on. Do the math. That is over 29 hours of conferencing next week. Even though conferences completely drain me, I look forward this one-on-one time with my students, to volley ideas and to collaborate on their work. This passes as fun for me (I know I am lame, but see above: My students rock).
Back to the Lashout of 2009: One of my students complained that none of the remaining conference times were times that he was on campus. So sad. That looks like an extra trip to school for him. Then he said, "Why would I want to drive 30 minutes for a 20 minute conference?"
Oh no. No sir, you did not. You did NOT just tell me that my time is not as valuable as your time. So, I told him to skip the conference... then I could have back that 20 minutes of my life, and he could go on with his day. He piped up again. Fuming, I was fuming. And, in the middle of the classroom buzzing with 18 year olds working on group projects, I told him he was really pissing me off and he needed to stop right then. And I meant it. RIGHT THEN.
I am willing to go to great lengths to make sure my students learn something, to help build their self-confidence, to develop their lackluster writing skills. And I don't expect them to name their firstborn after me or even to bake me cupcakes on the last day of school (although that would be nice). But I do expect to be respected. And in no way is it wise for them to imply that their time is more valuable than mine.
I may seem small and friendly, but so does a chihuahua, right before it clamps down on your hand. That's all I am saying.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Truth Be Told...
I remember when I was first introduced to the idea that everyone is a little bit racist. At first, I was indignant and appalled. But, once I stopped being defensive, I realized that some of the stereotypes that I had been exposed to had, in fact, seeped into my subconscious. I never spoke them aloud... but they were there nonetheless, allowing me to subtly identify people as "other" and guiding my perceptions of people and my subsequent interactions with them. Once I admitted that I had bought into some of these stereotypes, then I could work on dismissing them or dismantling them to get at the fear of difference that almost always drives stereotypes.
As a teacher, I have had to confront my own prejudice repeatedly, to see the ugliness that lurks around in the dark recesses of my mind. And while at times I am horrified at thoughts that will flit through my mind, I am mostly grateful that I am not afraid to let those prejudices go, once I have identified them. I am thankful to have a job where I can't just allow my prejudices to quietly garner strength; they must be identified and destroyed. I have to constantly be willing to grow and to admit that I am not always as accepting as I would like to believe myself to be.
So, why the confessional? Because I have been guilty of ignoring my students' use of the word "retard" as an insult in my classroom. Because I am guilty of throwing the word around in banter. And because I had convinced myself that it is harmless, that I meant nothing by it. But, truth be told, when someone is throwing around the word "dyke," I bristle. Because, even if they say they mean nothing by it, I know there is a tinge of hate somewhere in there. And I know the same is true when I cavalierly use the word "retarded." I am identifying someone as "other," as lesser than me. I don't want to be that person. I believe every life is valuable, that everyone deserves respect. It is time that my use of language reflect those beliefs.
As a teacher, I have had to confront my own prejudice repeatedly, to see the ugliness that lurks around in the dark recesses of my mind. And while at times I am horrified at thoughts that will flit through my mind, I am mostly grateful that I am not afraid to let those prejudices go, once I have identified them. I am thankful to have a job where I can't just allow my prejudices to quietly garner strength; they must be identified and destroyed. I have to constantly be willing to grow and to admit that I am not always as accepting as I would like to believe myself to be.
So, why the confessional? Because I have been guilty of ignoring my students' use of the word "retard" as an insult in my classroom. Because I am guilty of throwing the word around in banter. And because I had convinced myself that it is harmless, that I meant nothing by it. But, truth be told, when someone is throwing around the word "dyke," I bristle. Because, even if they say they mean nothing by it, I know there is a tinge of hate somewhere in there. And I know the same is true when I cavalierly use the word "retarded." I am identifying someone as "other," as lesser than me. I don't want to be that person. I believe every life is valuable, that everyone deserves respect. It is time that my use of language reflect those beliefs.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Atlanta (brought to you by ASICS)
I took my first run in Atlanta today. Holy hills. Every time I rounded a corner, I was facing either a steep incline or some sort of rolling hill that shouldn't have been too intimidating... but after the first two miles or so, all hills look daunting. Trust me.
But then there were the glorious downhill jaunts, where running is a bit like just skimming the surface of the path effortlessly. And, suddenly, I would look up and there would be (you guessed it) another hill.
All of this hill business is a drastic change from Tampa, where everything is flat. At home, I run at the same pace consistently. But, here, I had to slow it down on the inclines, lest I run out of fuel mid-hill. And on the downward slopes, I had to center my body so that inertia didn't completely take over and send me cascading head over heels down the hill. I couldn't really look ahead, because what was ahead was inconsequential. All that mattered was how I was going to navigate the terrain I was on right then. And I didn't know how I would feel after the next hill or around the next corner, because it was all uncharted territory for me.
This run, this run mirrored my life right now... concentrating on the moment, uncertain what is ahead, but still pushing forward and finding that I am really digging the scenery.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Know-It-All
I hate to admit that I don't know. I want to have all the answers, to have my life figured out. It is difficult for me to ask for help because that means weakness, vulnerability.
This is a stupid outlook on life. Seriously.
Clearly, I don't know everything. It surely was not good decision-making and incredible coping skills that landed me in AA at 33. So, I am going to take this opportunity to admit what has probably been obvious all along: I don't know everything.
(But I do know most things.)
Another fascinating tidbit that I have recently discovered about myself: I seem to find something glamorous about being slightly damaged. If I am no longer drinking, I no longer have the obvious tragic flaw. Now I am forced to actually be complex, to have ideas and thoughts to present to the world, instead of presenting my flaw and demanding that people be intrigued.
I feel relatively certain that my closest friends did not find my drinking darkly mysterious or tragically endearing. But self-perception is often a long way from reality. And when Step 6 says, "Became entirely ready for God to remove all of these defects of character" this clinging to familiar, albeit destructive, behaviors is exactly the hesitation that they thought this step might run up against.
I don't need to be tragic, or dark and complex, to be interesting. Hell, I'd probably do fine just being myself... once I figure out who that really is.
This is a stupid outlook on life. Seriously.
Clearly, I don't know everything. It surely was not good decision-making and incredible coping skills that landed me in AA at 33. So, I am going to take this opportunity to admit what has probably been obvious all along: I don't know everything.
(But I do know most things.)
Another fascinating tidbit that I have recently discovered about myself: I seem to find something glamorous about being slightly damaged. If I am no longer drinking, I no longer have the obvious tragic flaw. Now I am forced to actually be complex, to have ideas and thoughts to present to the world, instead of presenting my flaw and demanding that people be intrigued.
I feel relatively certain that my closest friends did not find my drinking darkly mysterious or tragically endearing. But self-perception is often a long way from reality. And when Step 6 says, "Became entirely ready for God to remove all of these defects of character" this clinging to familiar, albeit destructive, behaviors is exactly the hesitation that they thought this step might run up against.
I don't need to be tragic, or dark and complex, to be interesting. Hell, I'd probably do fine just being myself... once I figure out who that really is.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Gender Play
No one questions whether I am male or female. I may have been mistaken for a guy once when my head was shaved... a 12 year old boy, perhaps. I would find such a mistake laughable, simply because I am very comfortable with my identity as a female. I have never had to battle to be seen as a girl. I get the rights and the discrimination that comes with the "girl" label. Any gender play has always been a choice on my part. That choice is precisely what makes it "play."
I also know that, for some, there is nothing playful about their gender presentation. It is a battle each and every day to present the way that they feel most comfortable in their soul, which often then makes them an object of scorn, or at least a curiosity, in the rest of the "correctly" gendered world. People can be cruel. They want others to fit neatly inside their categories, to play by their rules. Those who can't, or won't, are highly suspect, as they destabilize gender for everyone else.
And why, exactly, is that so scary? Why do we demand to know if someone is "really" a man or a woman? What difference does it make? And what makes someone a real man? Genitals? Because I consider trans-men to be men, whether they have had genital reconstruction or not. Where is that line? Where is the shift from play to reality?
I also know that, for some, there is nothing playful about their gender presentation. It is a battle each and every day to present the way that they feel most comfortable in their soul, which often then makes them an object of scorn, or at least a curiosity, in the rest of the "correctly" gendered world. People can be cruel. They want others to fit neatly inside their categories, to play by their rules. Those who can't, or won't, are highly suspect, as they destabilize gender for everyone else.
And why, exactly, is that so scary? Why do we demand to know if someone is "really" a man or a woman? What difference does it make? And what makes someone a real man? Genitals? Because I consider trans-men to be men, whether they have had genital reconstruction or not. Where is that line? Where is the shift from play to reality?
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Dogma? I Sneeze at Your Dogma.
I realized, in reading some of my students' blog writings (yes, I really do read them), that quite a number of them are Christians. I guess that isn't too surprising. What really caught me off guard is how much their open profession of faith bothered me.
As a Christian, shouldn't I be pleased that these kids have found their faith so early in life? It took me a decade of searching to come back to the faith in which I was raised. But I think their lack of searching is precisely what bothers me. Many of the entries I read were of the "Jesus-Christ-is-Lord-of-All-and-I-Submit-Unquestioningly-to-His-Authority" variety. A few problems there: 1) If they believe that Christianity is true, to the exclusion of truth in other religions, that often leads them to believe that they should be only nominally tolerant of the sinners belonging to other religions that are inevitably hell bound. 2) I wonder who is telling them what God's/Jesus' authority and will should look like.
The world desperately needs an inter-faith approach to global issues of poverty, social injustice and oppression. We can't approach inter-faith solutions until we stop trying to convert each other. I doubt God is keeping tally of each religion's converts and conquests. And, truth be told, salvation/reunification/communion with God can only be understood by the soul it touches. It simply is not my right or my business to judge someone else's relationship with God. What do I know of such things?
I am incredibly skeptical of organized religion. I don't want someone telling me what to think. I love church--the ritual, the meditative contemplation, dwelling with God in the quiet of a Sunday morning. But dogma doesn't touch my heart nor does it positively transform my life. I seek God. And I believe that God quietly guides me, if I am willing to listen. At the same time, I do not believe that the Bible is infallible or that all of it is the inspired Word of God. Hearing God requires common sense and the willingness to question my own motives. It requires questioning the authority figures and wrestling with my own doubts until I come up with the answer that is right for me, that reflects my relationship with my higher power.
In my most fervent following of Christianity, I totally lost sight of Christ. I just hope these kids can see the difference between dogmatic beliefs and a relationship with God.
As a Christian, shouldn't I be pleased that these kids have found their faith so early in life? It took me a decade of searching to come back to the faith in which I was raised. But I think their lack of searching is precisely what bothers me. Many of the entries I read were of the "Jesus-Christ-is-Lord-of-All-and-I-Submit-Unquestioningly-to-His-Authority" variety. A few problems there: 1) If they believe that Christianity is true, to the exclusion of truth in other religions, that often leads them to believe that they should be only nominally tolerant of the sinners belonging to other religions that are inevitably hell bound. 2) I wonder who is telling them what God's/Jesus' authority and will should look like.
The world desperately needs an inter-faith approach to global issues of poverty, social injustice and oppression. We can't approach inter-faith solutions until we stop trying to convert each other. I doubt God is keeping tally of each religion's converts and conquests. And, truth be told, salvation/reunification/communion with God can only be understood by the soul it touches. It simply is not my right or my business to judge someone else's relationship with God. What do I know of such things?
I am incredibly skeptical of organized religion. I don't want someone telling me what to think. I love church--the ritual, the meditative contemplation, dwelling with God in the quiet of a Sunday morning. But dogma doesn't touch my heart nor does it positively transform my life. I seek God. And I believe that God quietly guides me, if I am willing to listen. At the same time, I do not believe that the Bible is infallible or that all of it is the inspired Word of God. Hearing God requires common sense and the willingness to question my own motives. It requires questioning the authority figures and wrestling with my own doubts until I come up with the answer that is right for me, that reflects my relationship with my higher power.
In my most fervent following of Christianity, I totally lost sight of Christ. I just hope these kids can see the difference between dogmatic beliefs and a relationship with God.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Replacing Addictions with Sheep
Long ago (5 years or so), when my friend got sober, I remember saying, "Well, isn't she just replacing one addiction with another?," in response to her attendance at AA meetings.
Good God, how asinine. Maybe I feared her addiction and wanted to write her solution off as trivial. Or maybe I was just shooting off bullshit, as I am wont to do on occasion. But going to meetings on a daily basis does not qualify as an "addiction." And AA doesn't disconnect your synapses the way that chronic drinking does.
But, I do have to admit that, at points, I have been afraid that AA would make me dumb. I mean, what if I start speaking in platitudes and declaring that everything is "God's will." Or, God forbid, I just quote directly from the Big Book all the time. But I figure if Christianity hasn't killed my free will or my ability to think for myself, then AA doesn't stand a chance at making me into a sheep.
And, while some of the AA slogans can get on my last nerve, the 12 Steps require real thought and effort. It is a struggle to constantly be accountable, to be led by unselfish desires, to look at my motivations for every action and reaction. This is not for the faint of heart.
Neither is real Christianity, but most folks would rather be sheep.
Good God, how asinine. Maybe I feared her addiction and wanted to write her solution off as trivial. Or maybe I was just shooting off bullshit, as I am wont to do on occasion. But going to meetings on a daily basis does not qualify as an "addiction." And AA doesn't disconnect your synapses the way that chronic drinking does.
But, I do have to admit that, at points, I have been afraid that AA would make me dumb. I mean, what if I start speaking in platitudes and declaring that everything is "God's will." Or, God forbid, I just quote directly from the Big Book all the time. But I figure if Christianity hasn't killed my free will or my ability to think for myself, then AA doesn't stand a chance at making me into a sheep.
And, while some of the AA slogans can get on my last nerve, the 12 Steps require real thought and effort. It is a struggle to constantly be accountable, to be led by unselfish desires, to look at my motivations for every action and reaction. This is not for the faint of heart.
Neither is real Christianity, but most folks would rather be sheep.
Friday, March 06, 2009
To recreate as I choose...
Just returned from Anything But Safe (a conference on gender and sex), which was awesome. Way too much time has lapsed since I gave sex much of a thought. I have sex. But I have not considered recently what I want sex to be, what it can be once I release my preconceived notions of propriety and acceptable desire.
Moreover, gender fluidity isn't something I consider... primarily because I identify as a "woman" and then move on to the next topic. But there is no binary "male" and "female." I am a queer, and as such I already defy the binary. But do I cling to certain behaviors, certain thoughts because I believe they mirror the "female" instead of being concerned about whether or not they mirror who I am? Interesting thoughts to consider, to deconstruct...
But what I truly walked away with is the desire, no... the need, to speak my truth. When I get real, when all of the pretense is stripped away, who am I? What does my voice offer to the discourse on religion, politics, gender, and sexuality that can truly reach people, that can offer alternative ways of seeing and experiencing the world?
I am a lesbian. I am a Christian with Buddhist leanings. I am an alcoholic. None of these labels define me completely. But they are pieces of me. They are truths. They are mine to embrace or discard as I choose. I am mine to recreate as I will.*
*These thoughts and ideas were inspired by the fabulous Kate Bornstein, who spoke tonight at Anything But Safe.
Moreover, gender fluidity isn't something I consider... primarily because I identify as a "woman" and then move on to the next topic. But there is no binary "male" and "female." I am a queer, and as such I already defy the binary. But do I cling to certain behaviors, certain thoughts because I believe they mirror the "female" instead of being concerned about whether or not they mirror who I am? Interesting thoughts to consider, to deconstruct...
But what I truly walked away with is the desire, no... the need, to speak my truth. When I get real, when all of the pretense is stripped away, who am I? What does my voice offer to the discourse on religion, politics, gender, and sexuality that can truly reach people, that can offer alternative ways of seeing and experiencing the world?
I am a lesbian. I am a Christian with Buddhist leanings. I am an alcoholic. None of these labels define me completely. But they are pieces of me. They are truths. They are mine to embrace or discard as I choose. I am mine to recreate as I will.*
*These thoughts and ideas were inspired by the fabulous Kate Bornstein, who spoke tonight at Anything But Safe.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Bits and pieces...
After a year of sobriety, the AAs usually ask you to share your story with the group. I have been thinking a lot about this lately, formulating what I might say... what insight I might be able to provide. As a writer, I think every person's story has value. So, here are pieces of my story to be woven together at a later date.
In one of my earliest memories, I am having a meltdown at preschool. I am inconsolable. My parents had enrolled me in preschool shortly after my sister's birth. They wanted me to develop social skills, to interact with my peers. I had other plans. My mother had dropped me off that morning, and I cried relentlessly until the teachers broke down and asked my mother to come pick me up. What I can still remember, though, is that as I was screaming and sobbing for my mom, I was eyeing the Big Wheels and trikes, watching the other kids have fun. And it did look like fun. I wanted to play too. But I had already chosen the crying path. Even then, I didn't know how to redirect. So I went home with my mom. My parents never sent me back to preschool.
I was always a melodramatic kid. I remember watching Annie when I was six or seven and really identifying with her longing for parents, her wish to be loved... the problem with that was that my parents had always been right there and had alwasy loved me. My penchant for melancholy got ramped up a bit when my dad got transfered from Gainesville to Ft. Lauderdale, and we had to stay behind to sell the house. I remember my friends coming over to play and me just standing by the window, gazing out, clutching my Annie locket willing myself into sadness above the racket of my friends' make-believe, until one of them whispered to the other, "Kendra must be sad because her dad is away right not. I think she might cry." And I did. I shed one, single tear... just enough to express my sadness, yet still remain vaguely mysterious. Seems I was on the road to being a master manipulator at the age of six.
In one of my earliest memories, I am having a meltdown at preschool. I am inconsolable. My parents had enrolled me in preschool shortly after my sister's birth. They wanted me to develop social skills, to interact with my peers. I had other plans. My mother had dropped me off that morning, and I cried relentlessly until the teachers broke down and asked my mother to come pick me up. What I can still remember, though, is that as I was screaming and sobbing for my mom, I was eyeing the Big Wheels and trikes, watching the other kids have fun. And it did look like fun. I wanted to play too. But I had already chosen the crying path. Even then, I didn't know how to redirect. So I went home with my mom. My parents never sent me back to preschool.
I was always a melodramatic kid. I remember watching Annie when I was six or seven and really identifying with her longing for parents, her wish to be loved... the problem with that was that my parents had always been right there and had alwasy loved me. My penchant for melancholy got ramped up a bit when my dad got transfered from Gainesville to Ft. Lauderdale, and we had to stay behind to sell the house. I remember my friends coming over to play and me just standing by the window, gazing out, clutching my Annie locket willing myself into sadness above the racket of my friends' make-believe, until one of them whispered to the other, "Kendra must be sad because her dad is away right not. I think she might cry." And I did. I shed one, single tear... just enough to express my sadness, yet still remain vaguely mysterious. Seems I was on the road to being a master manipulator at the age of six.
Friday, February 06, 2009
To and Fro
Crazy week this week. Conferences always throw off my schedule a bit. Nothing like chaos and chatter booked right into the day to make for an interesting week. But, by Wednesday, I was back to my regularly scheduled classes. And, oddly, I found myself kind of missing the frantic pacing of my conference schedule.
As I try to figure out where I function to my optimal potential, I am finding that I make myself slow down too often. It is almost as if the fear that I will get tired from too much constant activity makes me tired. I know sitting most definitely makes me lethargic. The computer... forget it... it sucks the energy out of my soul. I never feel fulfilled after surfing around, hopping on different sites that I like to read.... I just wonder why I am not writing one of those sites that people stop in to read.
Don't get me wrong; I know down time is key. But down time spent reading, or running, or learning to draw is enough relaxation for me. A nap now and again is fine, too. But staring at the TV for extended periods just makes me antsy, as I compile the list of all the things that are NOT getting done because I am watching TV. And that list makes me not want to do anything, since it is so overwhelming.
I need To Do lists and schedules to keep. I don't want to be that girl... but I am. And maybe she isn't so bad, that girl. She isn't spontaneous, but damn if she isn't spunky!
As I try to figure out where I function to my optimal potential, I am finding that I make myself slow down too often. It is almost as if the fear that I will get tired from too much constant activity makes me tired. I know sitting most definitely makes me lethargic. The computer... forget it... it sucks the energy out of my soul. I never feel fulfilled after surfing around, hopping on different sites that I like to read.... I just wonder why I am not writing one of those sites that people stop in to read.
Don't get me wrong; I know down time is key. But down time spent reading, or running, or learning to draw is enough relaxation for me. A nap now and again is fine, too. But staring at the TV for extended periods just makes me antsy, as I compile the list of all the things that are NOT getting done because I am watching TV. And that list makes me not want to do anything, since it is so overwhelming.
I need To Do lists and schedules to keep. I don't want to be that girl... but I am. And maybe she isn't so bad, that girl. She isn't spontaneous, but damn if she isn't spunky!
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
25 Things in 26 Minutes
1) I get crabby when people don't follow through with plans. But people should totally understand when I flake out.
2) I think about running way more than a normal person should.
3) Coffee has become my passion, although I still rarely have more than 2 lattes per day. If I had a coffee pot in my office... (shudder) I hesitate to think how caffeinated I would be.
4) I struggle to spell caffeine every time. I spelled it wrong in my status update the other day. Uh... embarrassing.... many of my friends are English types (the subject, not the country).
5) I often wonder if I am self-centered as I used to be. I would ask around...but I think we all see the problem there.
6) I love people watching. I smile when someone catches me looking at them.
7) Peanut butter and honey sandwiches are my new favorite lunch item.
8) I only like natural peanut butter now. The other stuff tastes like plastic to me.
9) I considered selling Milo to a band of gypsies when she started barking at 4:28 a.m. She has, by the way, the most grating bark... somewhere close to a scream sometimes. Horrid.
10) If I could, I would adopt an 11 year old.
11) Once I started reading 1984, I wondered why I had so vehemently protested reading it for all these years.
12) It is difficult for me to leave Borders without a new book.
13) I know I should shop at local bookstores, but I haven't found one I like. And I really like Borders.
14) I think about riding my road bike often. I rarely ever ride. But the idea is nice.
15) When I see pictures of my friends who live locally on Facebook, I get jealous that I wasn't invited to whatever outing they are enjoying in the pictures.
16) Since beginning AA, I feel more in touch with myself but completely out of touch with most of my friends.
17) There seems to be an endless struggle for me to find enough time to do all of the things I want to do. I spent a lot of time sitting around, pontificating with drink in hand. Now I want to DO stuff.
18) I get really irritated when Amy isn't as chipper as I am. I tend to act like she has kicked me. That is stupid. Live and let live.*
19) I listen to Guns N Roses while I run. They are the same songs I love in high school. Still love 'em.
20) The word 'lil freaks me out. No, seriously. 'Lil? What the hell is that???
21) Going out to coffee or dinner with my friends makes me really nervous (even if I want desperately to spend time with them). This is a phase. It will pass.
22) My dream job is to write for a magazine (a column) and teach writing at a small, liberal arts college. My job, in reality, is close enough to my dream job to make me immensely happy.
23) There are two people from high school that I feel like I mistreated in some way (yes, the ways are known to me). I plan on contacting both of them this week to apologize.
24) Facebook could be called Facecrack. I find it VERY addictive.
25) AA slogans drive me nuts (Easy Does It. First Things First. One Day at a Time. Live Life on Life's Terms. Live and Let Live), but I believe the principles I have been taught there are saving my life.
2) I think about running way more than a normal person should.
3) Coffee has become my passion, although I still rarely have more than 2 lattes per day. If I had a coffee pot in my office... (shudder) I hesitate to think how caffeinated I would be.
4) I struggle to spell caffeine every time. I spelled it wrong in my status update the other day. Uh... embarrassing.... many of my friends are English types (the subject, not the country).
5) I often wonder if I am self-centered as I used to be. I would ask around...but I think we all see the problem there.
6) I love people watching. I smile when someone catches me looking at them.
7) Peanut butter and honey sandwiches are my new favorite lunch item.
8) I only like natural peanut butter now. The other stuff tastes like plastic to me.
9) I considered selling Milo to a band of gypsies when she started barking at 4:28 a.m. She has, by the way, the most grating bark... somewhere close to a scream sometimes. Horrid.
10) If I could, I would adopt an 11 year old.
11) Once I started reading 1984, I wondered why I had so vehemently protested reading it for all these years.
12) It is difficult for me to leave Borders without a new book.
13) I know I should shop at local bookstores, but I haven't found one I like. And I really like Borders.
14) I think about riding my road bike often. I rarely ever ride. But the idea is nice.
15) When I see pictures of my friends who live locally on Facebook, I get jealous that I wasn't invited to whatever outing they are enjoying in the pictures.
16) Since beginning AA, I feel more in touch with myself but completely out of touch with most of my friends.
17) There seems to be an endless struggle for me to find enough time to do all of the things I want to do. I spent a lot of time sitting around, pontificating with drink in hand. Now I want to DO stuff.
18) I get really irritated when Amy isn't as chipper as I am. I tend to act like she has kicked me. That is stupid. Live and let live.*
19) I listen to Guns N Roses while I run. They are the same songs I love in high school. Still love 'em.
20) The word 'lil freaks me out. No, seriously. 'Lil? What the hell is that???
21) Going out to coffee or dinner with my friends makes me really nervous (even if I want desperately to spend time with them). This is a phase. It will pass.
22) My dream job is to write for a magazine (a column) and teach writing at a small, liberal arts college. My job, in reality, is close enough to my dream job to make me immensely happy.
23) There are two people from high school that I feel like I mistreated in some way (yes, the ways are known to me). I plan on contacting both of them this week to apologize.
24) Facebook could be called Facecrack. I find it VERY addictive.
25) AA slogans drive me nuts (Easy Does It. First Things First. One Day at a Time. Live Life on Life's Terms. Live and Let Live), but I believe the principles I have been taught there are saving my life.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wall-to-Wall
I have a cousin who is 5 years older than me. In kid time, that is an eternity. I always thought she was really neat... but she was kind of like a constellation to me: pretty, sparkely, and completely foreign and untouchable.
When I was 7, she was 12. We disappeared to her room on one of our infrequent visits to Jacksonville. She sat me down and gave me a full makeover. Okay, there wasn't much to make over... I was seven. But I clearly remember her applying mascara to my eyelashes... and her rolling her eyes when I blinked too hard smudged her artwork. My mom was none too happy about the mascara, by the way.
On another visit, she asked me if I liked the Police. I rifled through my brain, trying to seem nonchalant. Why wouldn't I like the police? They were good guys, right? Serve and protect... so I said yes. She saw through the ruse. "You don't know who the Police are, do you?" she asked, with only a trace of disdain. Yeah, seems as though she was talking about a BAND. Who knew?
The last time I spent any significant amount of time with her, I was about 12. I stayed at her house for a week over the summer. She snuck back in the house one night, after curfew, and crawled into her waterbed where I was feigning sleep... and I immediately rolled between the mattress and the bed frame. I tried to roll back out after she was asleep, but every time I was close to regaining some footing on the mattress, she would shift in her sleep, and I would roll right back into the crack. And the whole time, I just kept thinking how cool she was to have stayed out so late. I couldn't WAIT to break curfew!
My cousin and I haven't had much contact as adults. My father wasn't real keen on his sister's family knowing I am gay... so I just stayed clear of them for the most part. Then my cousin friended me on Facebook. I have to admit, I hesitated before I accepted her request. I mean, one look at my relationship status and 14 years of secret keeping goes down the tubes. But, then again, it was never my idea that my sexual orientation needed to be hidden in the first place. I accepted her request, and I waited...
She has sent me 3 emails in the past two days. She takes note of my status updates and comments on them constantly. She even wrote on my Wall. Seems like my cousin really was asking to be my friend.
I wonder if she still likes the Police? Maybe I will write on her Wall...
When I was 7, she was 12. We disappeared to her room on one of our infrequent visits to Jacksonville. She sat me down and gave me a full makeover. Okay, there wasn't much to make over... I was seven. But I clearly remember her applying mascara to my eyelashes... and her rolling her eyes when I blinked too hard smudged her artwork. My mom was none too happy about the mascara, by the way.
On another visit, she asked me if I liked the Police. I rifled through my brain, trying to seem nonchalant. Why wouldn't I like the police? They were good guys, right? Serve and protect... so I said yes. She saw through the ruse. "You don't know who the Police are, do you?" she asked, with only a trace of disdain. Yeah, seems as though she was talking about a BAND. Who knew?
The last time I spent any significant amount of time with her, I was about 12. I stayed at her house for a week over the summer. She snuck back in the house one night, after curfew, and crawled into her waterbed where I was feigning sleep... and I immediately rolled between the mattress and the bed frame. I tried to roll back out after she was asleep, but every time I was close to regaining some footing on the mattress, she would shift in her sleep, and I would roll right back into the crack. And the whole time, I just kept thinking how cool she was to have stayed out so late. I couldn't WAIT to break curfew!
My cousin and I haven't had much contact as adults. My father wasn't real keen on his sister's family knowing I am gay... so I just stayed clear of them for the most part. Then my cousin friended me on Facebook. I have to admit, I hesitated before I accepted her request. I mean, one look at my relationship status and 14 years of secret keeping goes down the tubes. But, then again, it was never my idea that my sexual orientation needed to be hidden in the first place. I accepted her request, and I waited...
She has sent me 3 emails in the past two days. She takes note of my status updates and comments on them constantly. She even wrote on my Wall. Seems like my cousin really was asking to be my friend.
I wonder if she still likes the Police? Maybe I will write on her Wall...
Monday, January 26, 2009
It was a Duncan, for those of you in the know...
When I was about 19 or 20, all the cool kids had yo-yos. Alright, alright. My friends were probably the only cats sporting a yo-yo constantly... but we WERE cool. Like a yo-yo posse, if you will.
My yo-yo was... wait for it... pink. I loved that damn thing. I had a trick book, which I practiced out of diligently. Totally fun, until I conked myself in the head ... which I managed to do with shocking regularity.
What I wouldn't give to be back at Epitome, drinking $1.60 cups of coffee, smoking cloves and yo-yoing for a few hours...
My yo-yo was... wait for it... pink. I loved that damn thing. I had a trick book, which I practiced out of diligently. Totally fun, until I conked myself in the head ... which I managed to do with shocking regularity.
What I wouldn't give to be back at Epitome, drinking $1.60 cups of coffee, smoking cloves and yo-yoing for a few hours...
Friday, January 23, 2009
Light & Airy
Seems like the longer I am sober, the more there is to do. There are clothes that need to be washed, floors to be cleaned, lessons that don't plan themselves, and friends that I need to spend time with. But the problem is that this list of necessities, the "must dos," are taking the fun out of everything. Even things I enjoy have become just another chore to check off my list. Absurd.
Time management has always been a struggle for me. But now there just don't seem to be enough hours left in the day. When am I supposed to bathe the dogs? When can I straighten my room? Maybe prioritizing is my issue. I don't have to live in an immaculate house (and believe me, I don't)... but I do have a standard of cleanliness I would like to maintain. I am still fitting in running on a regular basis (along with counting my calories on a calorie counter... it's like a game! Kind of). And my students get a well thought-out lesson every class period.
But I have seriously neglected my spiritual activities since school started... um, a bit problematic when the AA program is based on, well, spiritual strength. I guess that is what is bugging me, in part. And I am willing to bet that if I made more time for spiritual endeavors that I would be able to relax a bit more and enjoy what I have.
Light and airy... Like popcorn... Seems like a nice ideal to aim for, no?
Time management has always been a struggle for me. But now there just don't seem to be enough hours left in the day. When am I supposed to bathe the dogs? When can I straighten my room? Maybe prioritizing is my issue. I don't have to live in an immaculate house (and believe me, I don't)... but I do have a standard of cleanliness I would like to maintain. I am still fitting in running on a regular basis (along with counting my calories on a calorie counter... it's like a game! Kind of). And my students get a well thought-out lesson every class period.
But I have seriously neglected my spiritual activities since school started... um, a bit problematic when the AA program is based on, well, spiritual strength. I guess that is what is bugging me, in part. And I am willing to bet that if I made more time for spiritual endeavors that I would be able to relax a bit more and enjoy what I have.
Light and airy... Like popcorn... Seems like a nice ideal to aim for, no?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Tallahassee
It seems a cruel twist of fate when painful memories of a place can completely obscure the laughter and love also inhabited that place. Tallahassee is like that for me. The towering oaks, the rolling hills... it is all so familiar. But it brings back a tightness in my chest, an ache, that I find almost unbearable. I get homesick for Tallahassee, but too much time there brings up unanswered questions about who I am and the decisions I have made. I begin to feel unsettled...and a feeling reminiscent of grief casts a pall over the happy memories that attempt to surface.
Maybe there are too many reminders of who I was when I was there... selfish, childish, wildly out of control. But those circumstances have changed. Even the people who I feared would take pleasure in reminding me of the mess I made of my life have changed, moved on, chosen to forget, or simply forgiven me. I wonder why I struggle to do the same.
Maybe there are too many reminders of who I was when I was there... selfish, childish, wildly out of control. But those circumstances have changed. Even the people who I feared would take pleasure in reminding me of the mess I made of my life have changed, moved on, chosen to forget, or simply forgiven me. I wonder why I struggle to do the same.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Here Comes the Sun...
I can say, with certainty, that I am currently enjoying my lack of desire to kick someone in the face.
My mood has been crap for the past week, and I am finally pulling through to the other side. Given my usually sunshine-y nature, a bad mood that lasts this long is almost unheard of. I have felt in constant disarray... worked up and frustrated, but lacking the energy to change anything.
But now, now I am ready to take on the world. Or take on the weekend. Either way.
My mood has been crap for the past week, and I am finally pulling through to the other side. Given my usually sunshine-y nature, a bad mood that lasts this long is almost unheard of. I have felt in constant disarray... worked up and frustrated, but lacking the energy to change anything.
But now, now I am ready to take on the world. Or take on the weekend. Either way.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Answer is Always a Latte
Feeling a bit flat today. Not sure what that is about. I am typically pretty enthused on afternoons after I finish teaching... I know that I have a full day ahead of me tomorrow to catch up on grading, housework, whatever... But I still feel a nagging sense of frustration. Odd.
I decided to run the Gasparilla 5K in early February. Then there is a Strawberry Festival 10K that I am going to run in March. I downloaded a training program and am feeling pretty psyched about that. In fact, I would like to run tonight, but I won't have time before the meeting tonight. Why is it that I constantly feel as if I don't have enough time? It really is strange. I am accomplishing more than I have accomplished in years, yet I am always trying to catch up. Maybe that's where my frustration stems from... Nothing ever feels completed.
I head out to see my grandparents on Saturday morning. I am excited to see them. I think I will make dinner for them on Saturday night. I am just hoping my grandfather can hold back his stunningly intellectual analysis of politics and popular culture ... (read: I really don't feel like the constant debate about whether or not the 'N' word is appropriate. It is not. Not ever. End of discussion.). It is hard not to have a response to that kind of vile banter; but I know my reaction only serves to egg on his bad behavior. If I ignore it, he will stop. Sometimes it is just really hard to bite my tongue.
And, on a happy note, I am off to get my grande non-fat latte. Mmm... caffeinated goodness.
I decided to run the Gasparilla 5K in early February. Then there is a Strawberry Festival 10K that I am going to run in March. I downloaded a training program and am feeling pretty psyched about that. In fact, I would like to run tonight, but I won't have time before the meeting tonight. Why is it that I constantly feel as if I don't have enough time? It really is strange. I am accomplishing more than I have accomplished in years, yet I am always trying to catch up. Maybe that's where my frustration stems from... Nothing ever feels completed.
I head out to see my grandparents on Saturday morning. I am excited to see them. I think I will make dinner for them on Saturday night. I am just hoping my grandfather can hold back his stunningly intellectual analysis of politics and popular culture ... (read: I really don't feel like the constant debate about whether or not the 'N' word is appropriate. It is not. Not ever. End of discussion.). It is hard not to have a response to that kind of vile banter; but I know my reaction only serves to egg on his bad behavior. If I ignore it, he will stop. Sometimes it is just really hard to bite my tongue.
And, on a happy note, I am off to get my grande non-fat latte. Mmm... caffeinated goodness.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Step Outside Yourself
One of my former students came by to visit me today. He was in my ENC 1102 class for two semesters (he failed the first time and just scraped by the second). The first few weeks he spent in my class, I wasn't too sure about him. He seemed cocky. He was too mouthy. He was easily distracted and had a knack for distracting the others around him.
But, somehow, without my noticing it, he became my favorite student. I looked to him to offer intelligent feedback when the class discussion stalled. Conferences with him were engaging. He had a laid-back yet superior tone in discussions with his classmates that I found to be riotously funny.
He stopped by, unexpectedly, today. I had bumped into him in the hallways a few times over the past year, but we hadn't gotten to really talk. Today, he parked himself in my extra chair and chatted.
He told me about his horrid grades from last semester and his mini-meltdown trying to juggle starting a fraternity, working, school and a relationship. We chatted about what kids need to get out of the classes that I teach, what they come to the university system lacking. He told me what he looks for in a girl (a partner, as he called her). We discussed the reasons that we write, what types of writing we find fulfilling.
He told me he thought I was a spaz when he met me. I told him he is still an underachiever.
And we laughed about some of the ideas that have come to him when he was high... which shifted into an extensive conversation about perspective, in narrative and in life. And, finally (and why I think he really came by), we talked about his direction in life, his need for a life GPS... I think he misses his older brother (who is only 3 years younger than me), and he admitted unabashedly that he needs adult influence in his life. I cannot think of a more flattering reason for 21 year old kid to want to spend time talking to me.
He reminds me what is so brilliant about the university experience... the growth, the inquiry, the constant dawning of new ideas and new perspective. He made me proud of who I am and proud of what I do.
But, somehow, without my noticing it, he became my favorite student. I looked to him to offer intelligent feedback when the class discussion stalled. Conferences with him were engaging. He had a laid-back yet superior tone in discussions with his classmates that I found to be riotously funny.
He stopped by, unexpectedly, today. I had bumped into him in the hallways a few times over the past year, but we hadn't gotten to really talk. Today, he parked himself in my extra chair and chatted.
He told me about his horrid grades from last semester and his mini-meltdown trying to juggle starting a fraternity, working, school and a relationship. We chatted about what kids need to get out of the classes that I teach, what they come to the university system lacking. He told me what he looks for in a girl (a partner, as he called her). We discussed the reasons that we write, what types of writing we find fulfilling.
He told me he thought I was a spaz when he met me. I told him he is still an underachiever.
And we laughed about some of the ideas that have come to him when he was high... which shifted into an extensive conversation about perspective, in narrative and in life. And, finally (and why I think he really came by), we talked about his direction in life, his need for a life GPS... I think he misses his older brother (who is only 3 years younger than me), and he admitted unabashedly that he needs adult influence in his life. I cannot think of a more flattering reason for 21 year old kid to want to spend time talking to me.
He reminds me what is so brilliant about the university experience... the growth, the inquiry, the constant dawning of new ideas and new perspective. He made me proud of who I am and proud of what I do.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Run!
Okay, so not only am I venturing into the world of writing again, I am also venturing back in to running. I have been running on and off for a few years. It is the "off" part that bothers me.
I want very much to make running a part of my weekly routine, a part of who I am. Running presents a very specific challenge: Keep your feet moving, no matter what your mind tells you. This is empowering to a girl that has suffered for panic attacks since she was 15, who has to remind herself every day that she is an alcoholic and cannot drink, no matter what. My mind has gotten me into some serious pickles... running presents an opportunity for me to triumph over my mind. Quite thrilling, really.
But running is a challenge for me. I am not a naturally gifted runner. I fight a constant battle to stay in the moment when I am running, to not worry about the next 15 minutes, but to simply focus on the here and now.
If I made a "one step at a time" joke, would I be overstepping my bounds here? Yeah, I thought so.
I want very much to make running a part of my weekly routine, a part of who I am. Running presents a very specific challenge: Keep your feet moving, no matter what your mind tells you. This is empowering to a girl that has suffered for panic attacks since she was 15, who has to remind herself every day that she is an alcoholic and cannot drink, no matter what. My mind has gotten me into some serious pickles... running presents an opportunity for me to triumph over my mind. Quite thrilling, really.
But running is a challenge for me. I am not a naturally gifted runner. I fight a constant battle to stay in the moment when I am running, to not worry about the next 15 minutes, but to simply focus on the here and now.
If I made a "one step at a time" joke, would I be overstepping my bounds here? Yeah, I thought so.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
And... SUCCESS!
Hold the presses! I accomplished something! Good God, it didn't seem like I was going to get anything done today. But I have written THREE recommendation letters (pauses for applause). Time spent dreading writing these letters: 3 weeks. Time spent writing these letters: 1 hour. I will never learn, will I?
Procrastination has been with me since I was a kid. I remember lying awake at 1:30 a.m. being paralyzed with fear because I had a book report due the next week, and I had yet to begin reading the book. I was in fourth grade. That was 24 years ago. Yet, I remain persistent in the procrastination.
Also, I have never been good at time management. I have no idea how long it will take me to do something. Like that book in fourth grade. I could have read it in one afternoon. (Actually, if I remember correctly, I DID read it in one afternoon and wrote the book report that night--after my bedtime) But I thought it would take me DAYS to read it. So I dreaded it.
I do the same thing with lesson plans. I never know how long it will take me to plan a lesson--or to plan the semester, for that matter. So, I dread it, and I agonize over it, envisioning this mammoth project that will eat up an entire day. But when I actually begin planning, it only takes a few hours of concentrated effort.
The first step to recovery is admitting I have a problem, right? Is there a 12 step program for Procrastination? (see, it is so prominent in my life that I had to capitalize it!)
Procrastination has been with me since I was a kid. I remember lying awake at 1:30 a.m. being paralyzed with fear because I had a book report due the next week, and I had yet to begin reading the book. I was in fourth grade. That was 24 years ago. Yet, I remain persistent in the procrastination.
Also, I have never been good at time management. I have no idea how long it will take me to do something. Like that book in fourth grade. I could have read it in one afternoon. (Actually, if I remember correctly, I DID read it in one afternoon and wrote the book report that night--after my bedtime) But I thought it would take me DAYS to read it. So I dreaded it.
I do the same thing with lesson plans. I never know how long it will take me to plan a lesson--or to plan the semester, for that matter. So, I dread it, and I agonize over it, envisioning this mammoth project that will eat up an entire day. But when I actually begin planning, it only takes a few hours of concentrated effort.
The first step to recovery is admitting I have a problem, right? Is there a 12 step program for Procrastination? (see, it is so prominent in my life that I had to capitalize it!)
Monday, January 05, 2009
Thoughts on a Monday Afternoon After A Latte...
Sometimes fear of the blank page causes me to avoid writing anything at all. As if, if my work is not perfection, then it has no right to exist. If my writing is not immaculate, then I count it as defeat. When, really, it is probably best if I put all of the swirling words down... easier to make sense of them that way, after all. And my crushing fear that maybe I am not as good at writing as I would like to believe I am... the fear seems to be taking on a life of its own, crushing every creative impulse I have. So, now I will boldly confront my fear, and I will write. (Boldly confronting my fear conjures up images of a cartoon me, with a cape, a tiara and a scepter with a star on the end, standing with feet apart, ready to kick my fear in the shins)
In 2009, I vowed to read "24 Hours A Day," well, every day... And, for the past 5 days, I have. I feel refreshed after my reading, refocused. But I can't help but notice that the past five entries say almost the same thing... I am to acknowledge my alcoholism, my powerlessness (by turning to God), and be willing to help others. Seems so very simple, like it needn't be said five times. But, hell, I have to repeat everything I say to my students three times, or they won't remember it at all. So maybe this is the same principle. Or maybe it is the subtle nuances that leave me feeling like I have something to ponder, something to return to in the middle of may day. My thoughts often need refreshing, after all.
Today was the first day of classes for Spring 09. I made it through with very little trauma. Okay, there was someone jackhammering during my class. So the kids and I had to yell a little bit to be heard. But there were no intolerable moments of panic. I got a little sketched a couple times in my last two classes. I felt hyper aware that I was standing there, the focal point of attention. And a few times I felt a bit detached from my body and voice... which sounds God awful, but is really just small potatoes on the panic attack front. So, I am going to give myself the gold star of approval for not only surviving my first day back, but flourishing... Hey, I made the kids laugh. That is no easy task. 18 year olds are a tough crowd. Trust me.
In 2009, I vowed to read "24 Hours A Day," well, every day... And, for the past 5 days, I have. I feel refreshed after my reading, refocused. But I can't help but notice that the past five entries say almost the same thing... I am to acknowledge my alcoholism, my powerlessness (by turning to God), and be willing to help others. Seems so very simple, like it needn't be said five times. But, hell, I have to repeat everything I say to my students three times, or they won't remember it at all. So maybe this is the same principle. Or maybe it is the subtle nuances that leave me feeling like I have something to ponder, something to return to in the middle of may day. My thoughts often need refreshing, after all.
Today was the first day of classes for Spring 09. I made it through with very little trauma. Okay, there was someone jackhammering during my class. So the kids and I had to yell a little bit to be heard. But there were no intolerable moments of panic. I got a little sketched a couple times in my last two classes. I felt hyper aware that I was standing there, the focal point of attention. And a few times I felt a bit detached from my body and voice... which sounds God awful, but is really just small potatoes on the panic attack front. So, I am going to give myself the gold star of approval for not only surviving my first day back, but flourishing... Hey, I made the kids laugh. That is no easy task. 18 year olds are a tough crowd. Trust me.
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