staying the course minus the carrots

A few weeks back I wrote several journal entries about resilience. I wrote about not feeling as though I have any. Then I wrote about times when I was resilient, and how it took lots of thinking and writing to learn to see resilience in any of my past behaviors. I also wrote about wanting to develop resilience, to become more resilient.

Perhaps the universe does sometimes give us exactly what we want. I am now in, as best I can tell, something like resilience boot camp. Nothing is terrible right now. But everything is also just a little bit not quite right:

1. I'm finally getting back into the habit of exercise after having that awful Cold to End all Colds and my workouts aren't bad, but they aren't great either. I can feel muscles during and afterward, so that's good. But I feel worn out even while I exercise. I have not had that awesome triumphant badass rockstar experience in ages.
2. I am working on my dissertation most days. But the work is  s  l  o  w  going, and that is being charitable. Yesterday I spent an hour fixing my template because somehow everything went right-aligned. ?! I am lucky to write a sentence--one sentence--these days. 
3. All my acts of housewifery take what seems like forever to achieve. Making the bed feels like a morning-long chore. How is it that one person can dirty up so many dishes in one day? How does one cat shed so much hair? 
4. There has been more (and more varied) social time and it has been taking shapes that are unfamiliar to me. I walk away from this time feeling sort of emotionally sore--not in pain, but as though I've worked some social-emotional muscles and I can feel them. I walk away not quite knowing if I've worked these muscles properly, with good (sustainable, beneficial) form.

I can let go of my worry over my current frazzled state, my fears that I am slipping permanently, and see this state for what it is: Resilience Boot Camp. Maybe I'll put on three pounds that will stick around for a few months. Maybe I won't feel like a rock star in my workouts for a few more months. Maybe I won't write more than a few sentences a day in my dissertation for a few months. Maybe I'll just feel tired and imperfect and behind for a little season. I need to know, to really know, deep in every bone, that that is okay. Every day, by refusing to throw in the towel because I am imperfect, by going through the motions and phoning everything in, I am training myself in resilience. This is hard work and I get to take some credit! I don't have to eat so many cookies or donut holes or chocolates to take credit. I can ease off of that. But I can remind myself that I am kicking butt when it comes to developing resilience. That resilience-development is where I am excelling right now. Every time I make my bed, I get a resilience point. Every time I clean house, do the dishes, mop; every time I bring my lunch; every time I put on nice clothes; every time I don't buy something; sometimes when I do buy something; every time I write one sentence in my dissertation; every time I meditate; every time I do a workout or even just take a walk or warm up or pedal on the stationary bike; every time I refuse to turn down time with friends--all these choices and actions represent ways that I am developing resilience because I do all of them so imperfectly right now and I still have not stopped doing them. I am still dragging myself through each one even though none of them make me feel amazing or awesome or rock star or energetic or relieved. I feel a little behind and worried and disappointed: I want growth to be linear! I want to rock sexy abs! I want to have a perfect shredded body that digests anything I eat on command! I want to have already finished my dissertation and have a job waiting for me! I want to have everything all Figured Out and on display, glossy like a magazine spread.

Right now nothing is bad, nothing is dire. I am not injured. I am not completely stalled. I'm just sluggish. Slow. Easily distracted. Tired. A little sore. Feeling my bones and my age and my worries deeply. If I was in real pain, I would (and should!) stop, rest, and heal. I am not in real pain; I am in minor ache. Proceed with caution, but don't stop moving. I don't want this to be my new forever pace, but I need to see this as an actual pace, and I need to remember to reward myself for movement that is mostly forward. I am going. I have not stalled. I can keep going. It might take a few more cups of coffee, a few more naps, a few more binge-recovery days; it might take a few novels, a massage or two, and a face mask. 

This--and not some glamorous, All Set, shiny, couture fantasy--this is what resilience looks like. It's slogging on and being willing to be ungraceful, inelegant, dirty, a little bloated, tired, frazzled, behind, late, slow, wrong, out of breath, off beat, out of tune, underpracticed, and emotionally disheveled. And doing it again tomorrow. And then the next day. And then, when this season of dishevelment is past, when things are a little shinier, more polished, smoother, faster, and prettier, it means a stronger, more grateful, more joyful core.

There's a fight song in here somewhere, but I'm too tired to write it.

I remember when I had standards. That was a good day.

Poor neglected blog. If I had a little more rage and a little less self control, I'm sure I'd write more. Or if I had more discipline and creativity. Or more gratitude and gentleness. As is, I have been too apathetic these days to do much of anything but exercise and tweak my grocery budget. My body has never looked so good; neither has it ever seen so little action. 

I have been avoiding writing in all forms these days. It takes me weeks to write letters to my friends, even when they offer me up letters like gifts, sending bits of their hurt and heart and love when I've done nothing to make myself worthy. I address the envelopes and stamp them and tuck a piece of paper or a note card into the flap of the envelope and then I carry them around for weeks meaning to write a little note. There are some I've carried around for nearly two months. What could I possible have to say to these, my brilliant and busy and accomplished friends? 

I haven't written a dissertation word in over a month. I have a reading assignment currently. I have discovered some things that genuinely help my project. I have thought to myself, while reading and reflecting on those things, I must write this down; if I can freewrite this, I'll think it through; there's a connection I can make and it's close to the surface. it will come if I just write it out. I haven't written it out. Any of it. I've talked a little of it out. Thought about it. But worked the ideas through my fingers onto a keyboard? No. I can't bring myself to do it. 

I can't take up the long-ish books I need to read because I can't (so it seems) focus on anything of length. Oh, except for Anna Karenina. And The Complete Father Brown. 
 
I have been instructed (by my voice teacher who, except that his middle name is Torquemada,* is actually a nice guy) to make a habit of doing vocal exercises every day. This is not a new idea, of course. I mean to make a habit of meditating every day. Of writing my dissertation every day. Of reading for the dissertation every day. I mean to make exercise a habit and not a quota--to trust myself to work out on a regular, reliable schedule and not to bunch up workouts because I've slacked, or to dread it all day until I actually begin and am pleased. Now, on top of all the things about which I already feel guilty, I have to add the vocal exercises (which are challenging; I am not good at them). 

I laughed, though, when it occurred to me that I have been instructed to do what I want to do, and that about which I am, in a sense, writing. At the core of my thoughts about ethics is the idea (not an original one) that  what is most important are the tiny small things that one does regularly. I am being told to pay attention to what I am and what I do, and there is no difference between attending to silence and attending to self or to aspects of self (like vocal health). I can't attend to silence if I can't attend to the tiny ways that I sabotage my efforts at creating rituals, routines, and habits: to what am I paying attention if I can't or won't pay attention to myself? 

I've lumped things like "reading" and "writing" under "dissertation" or "academia" so regularly that all reading and all writing feels like a chore because I associate it with the reading and writing I am not doing and must do. In this way I have slipped into lethargic apathy. "Singing" is not part of that lump. Now I have only to begin everything again, tiny bit by tiny bit. I feel like a Taoist master. But ask me again tomorrow. 

*But not in a bad way.

A Mind of One's Own

Perhaps one of the greatest obstacles to writing a dissertation, particularly a dissertation in the humanities (or so it feels to the one writing such a dissertation), is the absolute triviality of it all. No life will be saved if I complete my dissertation. No cancer cured nor heartbreak mended. The world will continue spinning and the universe will continue expanding whether or not I finish and no word I write will make the world spin any faster or the universe achieve its doom any sooner.

My life, generally speaking, is much the same. Some people feel stress because they are pulled in too many directions and bear too many responsibilities. Others feel stress because they are pulled only ever inwardly and bear no responsibilities to others. No more that is, than the very thin responsibility to not be an asshole, or the the very vague responsibility to commit to justice and things for everyone. No one depends upon me for anything. If I do not earn a living, no stomach will suffer but my own. If I do not make something of myself, no person's pride will suffer but my own. If I decide to hide myself in the deepest solitude, no one will be affected. If I ruin myself with hard living, no one stands to be disappointed. In this way I am very, very free. I am entirely free to mean and be nothing. This is, I find, a very burdensome freedom.

My response to such freedom has been indulgent self-pity--yes, I am free to wallow, as well. Instead, I might take a cue from artists, as described by Virginia Woolf.

Further, accentuating all these difficulties [those that attend the creation of a work of genius] and making them harder to bear is the world's notorious indifference. It does not ask people to write poems and novels and histories; it does not need them. It does not care whether Flaubert finds the right word or whether Carlyle scrupulously verifies this or that fact. Naturally, it will not pay for what it does not want.

 But I care that Flaubert has found his word, my mind cried out. The world is a poorer, dimmer place if he has not! And that is precisely why and how I and my dissertation can matter. Not in a splashy and important way. We are not, after all, relativity, or a categorical imperative, or the enthymeme. But in a very small way (because I am, myself, very small) I can matter in ways parallel to those in which Flaubert's word matters. No belly goes empty whether Flaubert finds or does not find his word. No cancer cured. I am free to live a life of genius, a life full of moral beauty. No one's needs stand in my way and others can only help, not hinder, my project. The world is indifferent, yes. The world will not pay for the life I want to create. I need to remember that I don't need it to do so. The world will not pay for a line of Flaubert, either, but I wouldn't want to live in a world made up only of things that achieved value in this way.

There is another world. A secret world. An invisible world filled to bursting with invisible value. In this world, empires topple when the right word is not found. There are cancers of the soul for which only the only cure is some expression of aesthetic genius. I am wretchedly free in this art-indifferent world and must learn to bear my responsibilities elsewhere.

notes taken in day three of advanced editing class

poetry, poetry translations

coding for poetry: how to make clear for typesetter
in the eg: code for poem same whether in spanish or english: The Other = the first poem (poem title one). same code for the spanish original and for the english translation. [coding doesn't come out in blog post. weird. < PoT1 > the other < / PoT1 > (maybe spaces will help)]
leave notes for the typesetter about facing pages, line numbering, coding conventions
look up the Mistral poems: mad women.
----
work on grammar etc.
diagram sentences. maybe 1-2 hours/week? [if i get virgin: 35/mo and then I can maybe get voice lessons, too...; structure week; make new syllabi]
go through logic book. Perhaps: spend 2-3 hrs/week on logic and sentence diagramming.
can I get my chalkboard hung on the wall? would sam hang it for me?
move desk?
get rid of couch?
file fafsa!
pay sprint bill
sign up for indexing course. advertise among faculty!

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start taking editing tests
make a checklist of all the tasks I have to do for each conferral period
find and save my thank you emails from students. build a portfolio so that I can make a case for making my assistantship a staff position; outline the advantages of making my position long-term staff (half-3/4 time)
--do this 1 hr each day in office until finished; metropolis with iced tea for an afternoon.
look into starting in magazines. [still, how/where?]
book production--easier to find a job in a publishing house; good for someone who is organized
work on foreign languages; also, consider reading lists as job prep for editing (not just catch-up reading for my own edification): the more culturally informed I am, the better editor I can be (consider my responses to MUW)
study parts of book, stages of book production; vocab, names
teach: editing and teaching are very similar. teaching adjunct will help with editing; editing might help me to get teaching gigs
talk to erich about building a website
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get heavier weights. just do it.
build a new blog: offer to edit, index, and advise on all and sundry matters; link to facebook
homestead.com
offer samples of work. try to find lady's webpage (the woman to whom I sent editing assignments in class) janine/jeanine
see if I can really get a job at ben's company: freelance or part time edit from home.

resume: simple. no bells and whistles. too fancy: looks like they have lots of money and time; looks like all fluff, no substance. should look sleek and professional but not fancy (how would mine look?). No typo anywhere. Majority have them. Majority have at least one. Recheck mine. Change typeface. When applying for editing jobs: sense of proportion. Don't make it look like editing is my fallback from academia.

write to Real Simple about their etiquette person. I should have an advice column.
learn how to use spreadsheets (does maria know? maybe she can help?)

Formatting presentations: tell students to google their questions. Remind them that what they need to do is doable and easy to find. 
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one must not wait to be inspired to work (at office; freelancing; on dissertation; working out--everything)

just get a watch. go to fossil store today?

can email instructor for whole ms: how long does it take me to complete a whole manuscript? do this. goal: 100k word book in 75–100 hours.

definitely do voice lessons for well-being. so go with virgin.  t-mobile.

these classes are very stimulating. should consider taking (cheap!) classes frequently just for the change of pace, new thoughts, increased drive, creative thoughts re: whole life.

do I really need a kitchen table?

If I am going to freelance/ adjunct/ part-time--must stay very healthy so I can work for a very long time: I don't have any retirement funds! More reasons to exercise very regularly, get heavier weights, exercycle, stretch, do pushups, and walk.

nov 17–19: editing electronically. then I'll be done.

things the magazines won't tell you

you don't need a microwave to pop popcorn.
(no, you don't need a lumberjack to pour your milk, either.)
suggesting that overweight women/women struggling with weight issues might consider switching from "regular" microwave popcorn to "reduced fat" microwave popcorn is just sneaky marketing.
telling fellow readers that just such a switch  helped to turn you into a weight-loss success story is revealing and sad: giving up one food product for another is not a success.

How to Make Popcorn:
Pour about 1 tablespoon of oil (grapeseed, corn, safflower, or peanut would be good; olive works but you'll have more unpopped seeds) into a 2-4 qt saucepan. Make sure this pan has a lid. Add 2 tablespoons of popcorn kernals. I like white, blue, or red ones. Yellow ones are tasteless and less crispy.

Place pan on a burner on the stove and turn the burner on. Medium heat.

Keep the pan on the burner until the popping slows down considerably. Shake popcorn into a bowl. Salt. Eat.

Homemade Microwave Popcorn (if the thought of popping on the stove is too terrifying for words):
Place popcorn kernels into a paper bag. Fold the bag shut (tiny folds: you want as much space as possible). Microwave 2-5 minutes. 

Cheap. No "butter flavor." No added coloring. No preservatives. No artificial sweeteners. No TBHQ or partially hydrogenated anything. Less packaging. Less waste. More flavor.

If popcorn is the one thing standing between you and your skinny jeans, you might want to rethink things in general though.

I, on the other hand, am the one so irritated by the magazine copy that I have devoted an entire blog post to it. So I might need to rethink some things too...

not the post I promised. Still a new post, though

There was a fire today just down the street, just a block from my place, in a building I pass on my way to work. When I got outside this morning, I could hear shouting. After a few minutes, I realized someone was shouting for help. I didn’t think much of it right away: there is often a lot of shouting in my neighborhood. But the shouting didn’t stop, so I started looking for the source. I don’t know which I saw first, the smoke or the two men leaning out of an open window shouting for help.

Three people were on the phone to 911 as I passed, so I continued on to work. By the time I was a block past the fire, you could see the smoke blocks away. One fire engine screamed past me on its way to the building. For the next twenty minutes or so, I kept hearing more and more sirens.

I was tingling with nerves by the time I got to the office. My boss reminded me that I could check the breaking news on the Tribune page. I did, and got the news as it arrived. At least eleven hurt. At least two jumped. No one seems to have died.

I was a little surprised at how upset I was. I can’t imagine how I would react if I were trapped in a burning building. Would I shout for help? Would I be as calm as one of the men in the building seemed to have been? Would I try to save anything other than my flash drive? Would I jump? I can’t imagine jumping. Jumping seems like death, even if it’s not that high.

When I imagined myself in the same situation as those trapped men, I couldn't keep from thinking that their most pressing thought, behind the cries for help, must have been, “I might die today. In minutes. Soon. Today.” We all know that any day could be our dying day; something like a fire a few doors down makes that thought a bit less abstract than it usually is.

I felt terribly weak for leaving, for walking away while those men shouted and shouted and shouted. There was nothing I could do. Three people were on the phone calling 911. I would have been in the way. And still. Perhaps I could have talked to them until the engines arrived. Encouraged them to keep from panicking. Assured them that engines and ambulances were on their way and that they would be rescued. I could have done that. I didn’t do that. I am ashamed.

trivia

things that I have no good reason for disliking but dislike anyway:

• water anywhere near my eyes
• when a wet shower curtain touches my body
• cheerios
• the word 'armpit'
• cremini mushrooms
• feet, generally speaking
• the feeling of two fingers rubbing together, as when one tries to snap
• eyelids
• plain green tea
• exposing my knees
• black shoes
• toothbrushes
• exercising
• making phone calls
• yellow gold
• sardines
• blue ink
• couscous
• white rice
• parties

Check out my new idea!

It's so new and shiny and pretty and new, you'll be so impressed. Ready? Delayed Gratification. Yessss!

What does this lovely new (did I mention how new this idea is?) idea mean? Ah, sweet readers, it means that one delays the acquisition of some new thing until one has (a) decided it is really necessary/perfect/awesome/the right new thing, (b) determined that she can afford it, and (c) put into a ranked list of other necessary, perfect, awesome, right new things to see which is the one (one! not two!) that should be gotten now--assuming any can be gotten.

whew!

It turns out that a good deal of the pleasure of these nparnts (necessary perfect awesome right new things) comes before they have been acquired. In order (I think. Revision is for other people):

1. identification of a need
I need an airtight canister for my coffee beans! and new underwear! and a bright yellow, otherwise plain, giant yellow (must be yellow!) coffee mug

2. plotting the importance of the need
It is more important to have a canister than a mug. I have mugs. I do not have a canister. Both the mug and the canister are more important than underwear. Except for when I'm exercising, at which time, underwear may be the Most Important Thing Ever.

3. determining where to acquire the thing that will meet the need
Brick and mortar store? Amazon? Etsy? eBay? Small online retailer? Thrift store?
What will be the environmental impact of meeting this need? Who will be helped or hurt if/when I meet this need? How can I maximize the benefits of meeting this need and minimize the harms?

4. replot importance of need; add more needs
small insulated reusable handmade lunch sack! hair goo! homemade hair conditioner! shirts for spring! big yellow mug! glasses!

(repeat all steps until purchasing is possible)

I still haven't gotten to the point where I am allowed to purchase any of these things (hello, March!). I don't want to spend in one day (March 1) the equivalent of a whole month's worth of spending: part of the goal of the Month of Xtreme Thr!ft is to reduce my impulse purchases (with a larger goal of reevaluating what I consider necessary) and to trim my overall budget.

I still haven't decided how I will rank all of the things on this month's list of "things I think I need to buy or have." I have decided that in April or May, I'll do a thrift project wherein I don't buy any things. I'll buy food and toothpaste; I'll buy tickets to plays if there are any I really want to see. But no things.