I was reading through my old journals in preparation for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, November, annually. This is my first year. Check it out at nanowrimo.org) and I came across a very insightful entry about how to seek happiness when depressed. I don't remember being very depressed when I was 15, but what teenager doesn't have their downs?
So I'm going to enter it exactly as written originally on 1/2/04.
"Perhaps there is no guaranteed way to achieve happiness. The state of serenity is a result of a balance of the forces of nature. Some of these forces, we may manipulate with our actions and more significantly, with the way in which we look at things--the ultimate choice between optimism and pessimism. But the other forces--the obstinate, determined ones--keep themselves out of our grasp. They perpetually sway to and fro like a pendulum, sometimes disrupting the flow of energy in our lives and leaving us to mope, wallow, regret, and dread. At other times, they show us favor, temporarily casting a brilliant warmth over our entire consciousness, and either all seems right in the world, we can absorb life's hard hits and see through to the things that are right in the world, or we simply cease to fret about the wrongs we cannot fix.
Even as I say that each situation remains with us "temporarily," there is no clear definition to match this word. A period may be temporary so long as it does not last forever--a task that would be mighty difficult to accomplish, you can imagine. So even with the knowledge that a slum of depression will not last forever, there's no telling when the change will come that can classify it as "temporary." It may become more and more difficult to keep hope alive as one seeks alternative methods of propelling oneself into the lighthearted glee of yesteryear only to find that one is groping in the dark, slippery depths of the ocean, and must keep swimming towards the top until a boat comes by to lift one out of one's misery.
That boat cannot be signaled. It will come on its own. Those who drown must only be able to reach their arms out of the water, and they will be secured by a friendly, unseen hand, and pulled aboard to be dried in the breeze.
I have been trying to record the motivation with the power to sustain--or even create--happiness. I now see that because of those willful natural forces, the key that will unlock the door to inner peace is patience."
Monday, October 27, 2008
Saturday, December 29, 2007
No mercy. Please.
I want to be profound. Let me be. In the night, clouds of thought billow through my head, scenes of peace that are never achieved out here, in waking, real, tangible life. Because it's too harsh. There's too much vulnerability. There are some good things about darkness.
If only we could dwell in dreams.
But there is no constancy. Real life asks, demands, that we find meaning. Continuity.
Sometimes, oftentimes, importanttimes, that is through people. I'm trying to come to terms with that. I think, a little too slowly. I wish I could say, "Like the turtle, the wise one, who holds the Earth, who quiets the quarrelling animals, mountains rivers and trees, who slow and steady won the race." But it's more like the frogs, who can't see the increasingly hot water up to their necks for the doom it brings them.
Should I ask for more time, or allow the tingling tension of pressure to mount to the point where it produces action? Infinite time leads to inaction: this is one thing I've learned.
Many people have indicated my inaccuracy or unwise choice of expression in saying "I am disappointed in myself." I should be stating it to acknowledge, then change it, some say, and so I think. But what may really be the case is that I say it, it is said, so let it be written, so let it be done, and it is allowed to be and to continue because I have said it. It is there, set in stone, or in paper, or in any case words. Even if they aren't communicated to anyone else, they appear in my consciousness as words. Too many of them. And it allows them to be. To grow. To fester. Saying that I'm depressed gives me an excuse. Maybe I don't want that excuse. I want to be slapped out of it. I don't want this kindness, this leniency, this "understanding" everyone has been showing. No! Stop saying "Don't be so hard on yourself," because I really truly think things have not been hard enough on me and I feel and know I have a right to say so and be right. I need a slap. I need a shove. I don't need "time" to "recuperate." (From what?) I really think that the excess of time, of leniency, has led to this condition in the first place. This sense of directionlessness, purposelessness, meaninglessness. Because no one is demanding it of me. I am given room and time. Why? What for? So what if I ask for it? Who said you should give it to me? Who said I know what's best for me?
I need need. I need necessity. That is the best motivation there is. Choice? Pah. That leaves room for doubt. No, I really need there to be pressure, stress, force, and then, it will happen. It will happen because it must. Don't tell me there's an out. I don't want to know about it. Tell me it must be done. And kick me, while you're at it. Don't show mercy. Just this once.
If only we could dwell in dreams.
But there is no constancy. Real life asks, demands, that we find meaning. Continuity.
Sometimes, oftentimes, importanttimes, that is through people. I'm trying to come to terms with that. I think, a little too slowly. I wish I could say, "Like the turtle, the wise one, who holds the Earth, who quiets the quarrelling animals, mountains rivers and trees, who slow and steady won the race." But it's more like the frogs, who can't see the increasingly hot water up to their necks for the doom it brings them.
Should I ask for more time, or allow the tingling tension of pressure to mount to the point where it produces action? Infinite time leads to inaction: this is one thing I've learned.
Many people have indicated my inaccuracy or unwise choice of expression in saying "I am disappointed in myself." I should be stating it to acknowledge, then change it, some say, and so I think. But what may really be the case is that I say it, it is said, so let it be written, so let it be done, and it is allowed to be and to continue because I have said it. It is there, set in stone, or in paper, or in any case words. Even if they aren't communicated to anyone else, they appear in my consciousness as words. Too many of them. And it allows them to be. To grow. To fester. Saying that I'm depressed gives me an excuse. Maybe I don't want that excuse. I want to be slapped out of it. I don't want this kindness, this leniency, this "understanding" everyone has been showing. No! Stop saying "Don't be so hard on yourself," because I really truly think things have not been hard enough on me and I feel and know I have a right to say so and be right. I need a slap. I need a shove. I don't need "time" to "recuperate." (From what?) I really think that the excess of time, of leniency, has led to this condition in the first place. This sense of directionlessness, purposelessness, meaninglessness. Because no one is demanding it of me. I am given room and time. Why? What for? So what if I ask for it? Who said you should give it to me? Who said I know what's best for me?
I need need. I need necessity. That is the best motivation there is. Choice? Pah. That leaves room for doubt. No, I really need there to be pressure, stress, force, and then, it will happen. It will happen because it must. Don't tell me there's an out. I don't want to know about it. Tell me it must be done. And kick me, while you're at it. Don't show mercy. Just this once.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Beauty
Today, I think that if I must study something, I want to study beauty.
Art, music, poetry.
The poetry of language, of storytelling: the art, mystery, intrigue, effervescent spirit of the ways in which people, animals, the Earth, the elements of existence communicate with one another.
I suppose that's Science....maybe it just takes a lens of beauty on my end and I can be satisfied with whatever is put before me to study?
I want to study in the sense of filling my consciousness with certain fodder. I don't want to turn something that is joyous, the fulfillment of knowledge, edification and learning, into a hated task. But that is how things seem to inevitably surface in this world of regulated education. Maybe if we didn't refer to work as "setting one's nose to the grindstone," but instead opening one's mind to the wonders of the universe and incorporating more of the outside world into one's limited nature, we wouldn't keep hitting the wall of exhaustion...of being "burnt out."
OK, I choose beauty. I will find beauty, create art in my immediate environment. Trace it through the molecules of the air, dance often and without restraint, find joy in the straining of my brain to comprehend new and exciting ways of seeing, of knowing, of feeling, of being, the tugs of heartstrings, whether good or bad, at the provocation in constant supply from the world, from people, from an unbeckoned source. And this beauty doesn't have to be separate from the coarse reality of the world. There is beauty in everything. Divine artistry is etched into everything that has a way to be sensed.
Art, music, poetry.
The poetry of language, of storytelling: the art, mystery, intrigue, effervescent spirit of the ways in which people, animals, the Earth, the elements of existence communicate with one another.
I suppose that's Science....maybe it just takes a lens of beauty on my end and I can be satisfied with whatever is put before me to study?
I want to study in the sense of filling my consciousness with certain fodder. I don't want to turn something that is joyous, the fulfillment of knowledge, edification and learning, into a hated task. But that is how things seem to inevitably surface in this world of regulated education. Maybe if we didn't refer to work as "setting one's nose to the grindstone," but instead opening one's mind to the wonders of the universe and incorporating more of the outside world into one's limited nature, we wouldn't keep hitting the wall of exhaustion...of being "burnt out."
OK, I choose beauty. I will find beauty, create art in my immediate environment. Trace it through the molecules of the air, dance often and without restraint, find joy in the straining of my brain to comprehend new and exciting ways of seeing, of knowing, of feeling, of being, the tugs of heartstrings, whether good or bad, at the provocation in constant supply from the world, from people, from an unbeckoned source. And this beauty doesn't have to be separate from the coarse reality of the world. There is beauty in everything. Divine artistry is etched into everything that has a way to be sensed.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
An AC-CUMULonimbus-ATION of Thought
I just turned down an opportunity to go to a Cubs game when I had already paid for the ticket because I have to catch up in my book for HUM class. This isn't the first time I've passed by an opportunity to experience Chicago and be social with people in order to do class work, though it is increasingly becoming my most common choice in ultimata with those divergent options: do schoolwork, or do something exciting and different. The thing is, rather than lament this decision, I'm rejoicing in it. Being able to take the time to really engage in my structured education in class, I believe, will give me more joy than the single adventures into the city which, because of their episodic nature, seem most prominent in my memory as times when I was happy. I almost feel it's gotten to the point where partaking in certain social activities for pleasure is less enjoyable than doing the work that would actually also be enjoyable, (though, by nature, "work") and which would get the pressure of stress off the back of my neck.
Let me try to rationalize this mildly disconcerting realization of my shifting preference for how to spend my time. It's just so sad, so much of a personal letdown, when I have to sit through a class and almost feel opportunities at engaging discussion and provocation of new thoughts fly out the window because I don't have the framework on which to build them. I guilitily feel the professor's questions going to waste on me, like trying to rinse out a mud-caked garment in a trickle of water through the wall (where the mud-caked garment is the text or information at hand, waiting to be cleansed through dissection of the argument and discussion of its relevance, connection to other concepts, etc., and the professor's guidance is the stream of water, gushing profusely from some source of origin, but my lack of preparation has constructed a wall, a barrier that prohibits the shirt from being cleansed)...or it's as if she's about to take a load of what seem like useful things to the garbage and I'd like to cry out and say, "Wait! We can use that!" But if I were to keep the junk, it would just clutter up my room and when would I actually ever use this pile of wood, this old bicycle tire...when will I find a facility to recycle #5 plastic? (When will I have time to go back and catch up on the reading?) At some point I just have to sigh and let her take these things to the garbage...let her dispose of those valuable attempts to stimulate discussion.
So I've been having this rollercoaster of emotions, alternating rapidly between the sentiment that I am miserable here, that I don't belong, that I don't like this college or maybe don't want to be in college at all right now, that the reason I seem not to have capitalized on all the opportunites to get involved in things is because of the infection of the defective social organism of this school into my system, turning me into a maladjusted social being who prefers seclusion to social contact because my attempts at social outreach are met with confused, bewildered stares from bespectacled eyes, or by the scoff of someone who projects the air of thinking that contact with lifeforms on a lower plane of existence than him will decrease his value as a factory of mental output...(these latter cases, I assure you, are grossly inflated exaggerations of the student body here...but nevertheless true accounts of my fleeting first impressions of certain people.) Then on the other hand there are times when I feel completely and utterly satisfied with what I am learning, when I feel enlivened at the prospect of learning more, when I am extremely grateful for the diverse community of people here and the opportunites I have to share a meal with them, to exchange ideas, ideologies, or maybe just smiles in passing...and I complacently accept that I must sacrifice other activities in order to do the schoolwork that I myself have chosen, even though it's easy to blame it on the demanding professor or the College...or whatever unnamed oppressive force creates the "have" in "Oh my gosh I have to do so much by tomorrow."
So I've come to realize that these swings are caused by the constant question of how to balance education/enrichment through experience against book-learning. Put another way, it's about whether "college" and all that is embedded in that word is more about the experiences, the connections to people, the excitement, the youthful spontaneity, and what-have-you, or the access to knowledge, the ability to gain more, and the structure that allows you to be in the psychological mindset of accomplishing the attainment of said knowledge (that is, I could do a lot of reading over the summer and enrich my mind, but without the accountability of a class, professor, and a grade, who's going to make me? My motivation will eventually dwindle and I will be distractedc by numerous other leisurely pursuits.)
I think the most recent moments when I was really happy were when I could plan ahead and put aside the time to really delve into my classwork, to take advantage of the traditional, academic side of learning: Oh, the interesting reading I can do, the dynamic class discussions in which I can partake (which will become all the more dynamic through my participation--from the standpoint of me being invested, that is, not because no one talks if I don't...mostly... ;-), the chance to explore and articulate my own ideas in an essay. Unfortunately, (and here's the kicker,) in order to have time enough to do justice to this type of learning, I pretty much have to sacrifice the other, social, learning.
My fear, then, is that I'm cutting myself off from people. But more and more I think I only feel this fear because of imagined social pressure...that is, if I didn't have the stereotypical image of college in my head as a time when you build lifelong friendships, go out and have wild and crazy adventures, etc. I think I would be able to hold on to this intense happiness and joy that I can derive from learning in the school structure...Aha! And this, I must remind myself, is part of the reason I chose this school: if I am in an environment where people choose to spend their time in scholastic study for the joy of it, and thus I, in joining them, am not plagued by the thought that "everyone else is off having fun without me," I really will be able to pour myself into it.
And this brings me to my next point: the extent to which I realize I must pour myself, my efforts, into study in order to feel on top of things, here. It's not a question of being "smart." (I'll get to that in a moment.) It's a question of knowing things. I realize now how very little I know. Sometimes I don't finish the reading for a class (not out of rebellion, mind you, but a lack of focus to get it done, perhaps a few guilty ventures into something that is not school related--HEAVEN FORBID!--but certainly not anything major that would warrant me not finishing the work (like drinking and partying, as I can imagine is the reason for similar neglect of classwork in my peers)...But when I don't do the reading, I can't just make it up, pretend I knew it all along (well, pretending only gets you so far...), whereas I feel like~ocasionally, maybe~that is my default mode when dealing with something intellectually stimulating...a sort of "Oh, that's an interesting addition to or take on a subject I already knew...rather than the now more frequent moments of "this is entirely new ground for me..." And I don't know why that is my default mode...I know that I learned a lot in high school...Maybe it's just that in high school (at least the parts I can remember) I was in the mindset of "I don't know this, and would like to, and to an extent, need to, so teach me." Whereas now, when there is a much greater degree of freedom (no one said I had to go to college), the pervasive atmosphere is a sort of haughty, "yes, yes, I know...tell me something new, something interesting." I have developed that mindset but the reasoning behind it doesn't hold. I just don't know as much as lots of, if not most of, these people. Now, this isn't automatically a bad thing. It's nice to have the challenge, someone to lower the limbo stick and stare you in the face and say "How low can you go?"rather than playing limbo with a bunch of people who are five feet taller than me, being able to run back and forth under a bar they struggle to get their knees under. Limbo is more fun when it's tricky, it's true, but falling isn't always fun, nor is falling behind in classes.
So anyway, in the midst of these thoughts today I sit under a tree in the grass and a man with a young boy I'd guess to be about 8 come by. The man says, "Oh look, another co-ed. Are you a student here?"
"Yeah."
He turns to the little boy, "See, another smart...person. I was going to say 'girl' but that's illegal."
Teehee. I smirk, maybe even laugh out loud.
"Hey, what was your ACT score?" the man asks.
I laugh at the abrupt directness of the question. Why not answer it, though? How often do you get an invitation to acknowledge out-loud your accomplishments and take pride in them? "34," I say with a smile.
"Wow," he turns to the little boy, "See, we took a poll. That other person said 31...out of 36."
"Alright, that makes me feel good!" I giggle back.
He turns his attention back to me, "You have to be something like the top 1% to get in here, don't you?"
I sense that this might be one of those aggressively motivating parents, trying to instill in his boy early the necessity of getting into a good school and how hard it is to do so. Feeling the danger in this kind of stress from an early age, I direct my answer more to the boy, "Well, it's not all about test scores...You have to be an overall well-rounded applicant..." Curious as to their presence on campus, I ask, "Are you taking a tour?"
"Oh, I graduated from podiatry school here..." he gestures to Rockefeller Chapel behind us. "...and right now his grandpa's having surgery, so we went for a walk to get some air, and we thought, 'Hey, it's a church. Let's pray.'"
An empathetic "Mmm."
He launches into a series of more questions about the results of my academic career:
"What was your GPA?"
"Umm...actually, about 4.9."
"Out of...?
"5.2"
"And what rank was that?"
"8"
"Out of...?"
"About 300."
"Phew...what'd the valedictorian have?"
"Probably a 5.something."
Looking again at the little boy before his next question (I can imagine how strange all this talk of numbers might be to him), the man says, "now let me ask you this. What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I don't know yet," I say with a chuckle and a casual toss of my hands into the air.
"That's the right answer," he says, pointing emphatically. "You know, it worries me when you ask kids these days and they think they know exactly...I remember being in grad school and thinking, 'well, what now?' Podiatry school, I guess."
"Yeah..."
"OK, well thanks for talking with us."
"Oh, sure. Enjoy your walk!"
"Yeah, we'll try not to get lost."
Huh. Thanks, dude. It's nice to be reminded of the credentials on paper that say I'm worthy of being here...If my sense of academic stimualtion weren't enough to keep me going, that's something else to keep in mind: the standard system for finding smart people says I have potential. So I'm supposed to do something with it.
There's a vast store of knowledge out there, and the prospect of being able to dive into it is at once exhilarating and terrifying, like looking off a high-dive into the deep pool below. Once you jump, you can't pause mid-spin and chill by the side of the pool with friends. You have to see it through and hope they'll be cheering and waving from the stands when you emerge, saturated, accomplished.
Let me try to rationalize this mildly disconcerting realization of my shifting preference for how to spend my time. It's just so sad, so much of a personal letdown, when I have to sit through a class and almost feel opportunities at engaging discussion and provocation of new thoughts fly out the window because I don't have the framework on which to build them. I guilitily feel the professor's questions going to waste on me, like trying to rinse out a mud-caked garment in a trickle of water through the wall (where the mud-caked garment is the text or information at hand, waiting to be cleansed through dissection of the argument and discussion of its relevance, connection to other concepts, etc., and the professor's guidance is the stream of water, gushing profusely from some source of origin, but my lack of preparation has constructed a wall, a barrier that prohibits the shirt from being cleansed)...or it's as if she's about to take a load of what seem like useful things to the garbage and I'd like to cry out and say, "Wait! We can use that!" But if I were to keep the junk, it would just clutter up my room and when would I actually ever use this pile of wood, this old bicycle tire...when will I find a facility to recycle #5 plastic? (When will I have time to go back and catch up on the reading?) At some point I just have to sigh and let her take these things to the garbage...let her dispose of those valuable attempts to stimulate discussion.
So I've been having this rollercoaster of emotions, alternating rapidly between the sentiment that I am miserable here, that I don't belong, that I don't like this college or maybe don't want to be in college at all right now, that the reason I seem not to have capitalized on all the opportunites to get involved in things is because of the infection of the defective social organism of this school into my system, turning me into a maladjusted social being who prefers seclusion to social contact because my attempts at social outreach are met with confused, bewildered stares from bespectacled eyes, or by the scoff of someone who projects the air of thinking that contact with lifeforms on a lower plane of existence than him will decrease his value as a factory of mental output...(these latter cases, I assure you, are grossly inflated exaggerations of the student body here...but nevertheless true accounts of my fleeting first impressions of certain people.) Then on the other hand there are times when I feel completely and utterly satisfied with what I am learning, when I feel enlivened at the prospect of learning more, when I am extremely grateful for the diverse community of people here and the opportunites I have to share a meal with them, to exchange ideas, ideologies, or maybe just smiles in passing...and I complacently accept that I must sacrifice other activities in order to do the schoolwork that I myself have chosen, even though it's easy to blame it on the demanding professor or the College...or whatever unnamed oppressive force creates the "have" in "Oh my gosh I have to do so much by tomorrow."
So I've come to realize that these swings are caused by the constant question of how to balance education/enrichment through experience against book-learning. Put another way, it's about whether "college" and all that is embedded in that word is more about the experiences, the connections to people, the excitement, the youthful spontaneity, and what-have-you, or the access to knowledge, the ability to gain more, and the structure that allows you to be in the psychological mindset of accomplishing the attainment of said knowledge (that is, I could do a lot of reading over the summer and enrich my mind, but without the accountability of a class, professor, and a grade, who's going to make me? My motivation will eventually dwindle and I will be distractedc by numerous other leisurely pursuits.)
I think the most recent moments when I was really happy were when I could plan ahead and put aside the time to really delve into my classwork, to take advantage of the traditional, academic side of learning: Oh, the interesting reading I can do, the dynamic class discussions in which I can partake (which will become all the more dynamic through my participation--from the standpoint of me being invested, that is, not because no one talks if I don't...mostly... ;-), the chance to explore and articulate my own ideas in an essay. Unfortunately, (and here's the kicker,) in order to have time enough to do justice to this type of learning, I pretty much have to sacrifice the other, social, learning.
My fear, then, is that I'm cutting myself off from people. But more and more I think I only feel this fear because of imagined social pressure...that is, if I didn't have the stereotypical image of college in my head as a time when you build lifelong friendships, go out and have wild and crazy adventures, etc. I think I would be able to hold on to this intense happiness and joy that I can derive from learning in the school structure...Aha! And this, I must remind myself, is part of the reason I chose this school: if I am in an environment where people choose to spend their time in scholastic study for the joy of it, and thus I, in joining them, am not plagued by the thought that "everyone else is off having fun without me," I really will be able to pour myself into it.
And this brings me to my next point: the extent to which I realize I must pour myself, my efforts, into study in order to feel on top of things, here. It's not a question of being "smart." (I'll get to that in a moment.) It's a question of knowing things. I realize now how very little I know. Sometimes I don't finish the reading for a class (not out of rebellion, mind you, but a lack of focus to get it done, perhaps a few guilty ventures into something that is not school related--HEAVEN FORBID!--but certainly not anything major that would warrant me not finishing the work (like drinking and partying, as I can imagine is the reason for similar neglect of classwork in my peers)...But when I don't do the reading, I can't just make it up, pretend I knew it all along (well, pretending only gets you so far...), whereas I feel like~ocasionally, maybe~that is my default mode when dealing with something intellectually stimulating...a sort of "Oh, that's an interesting addition to or take on a subject I already knew...rather than the now more frequent moments of "this is entirely new ground for me..." And I don't know why that is my default mode...I know that I learned a lot in high school...Maybe it's just that in high school (at least the parts I can remember) I was in the mindset of "I don't know this, and would like to, and to an extent, need to, so teach me." Whereas now, when there is a much greater degree of freedom (no one said I had to go to college), the pervasive atmosphere is a sort of haughty, "yes, yes, I know...tell me something new, something interesting." I have developed that mindset but the reasoning behind it doesn't hold. I just don't know as much as lots of, if not most of, these people. Now, this isn't automatically a bad thing. It's nice to have the challenge, someone to lower the limbo stick and stare you in the face and say "How low can you go?"rather than playing limbo with a bunch of people who are five feet taller than me, being able to run back and forth under a bar they struggle to get their knees under. Limbo is more fun when it's tricky, it's true, but falling isn't always fun, nor is falling behind in classes.
So anyway, in the midst of these thoughts today I sit under a tree in the grass and a man with a young boy I'd guess to be about 8 come by. The man says, "Oh look, another co-ed. Are you a student here?"
"Yeah."
He turns to the little boy, "See, another smart...person. I was going to say 'girl' but that's illegal."
Teehee. I smirk, maybe even laugh out loud.
"Hey, what was your ACT score?" the man asks.
I laugh at the abrupt directness of the question. Why not answer it, though? How often do you get an invitation to acknowledge out-loud your accomplishments and take pride in them? "34," I say with a smile.
"Wow," he turns to the little boy, "See, we took a poll. That other person said 31...out of 36."
"Alright, that makes me feel good!" I giggle back.
He turns his attention back to me, "You have to be something like the top 1% to get in here, don't you?"
I sense that this might be one of those aggressively motivating parents, trying to instill in his boy early the necessity of getting into a good school and how hard it is to do so. Feeling the danger in this kind of stress from an early age, I direct my answer more to the boy, "Well, it's not all about test scores...You have to be an overall well-rounded applicant..." Curious as to their presence on campus, I ask, "Are you taking a tour?"
"Oh, I graduated from podiatry school here..." he gestures to Rockefeller Chapel behind us. "...and right now his grandpa's having surgery, so we went for a walk to get some air, and we thought, 'Hey, it's a church. Let's pray.'"
An empathetic "Mmm."
He launches into a series of more questions about the results of my academic career:
"What was your GPA?"
"Umm...actually, about 4.9."
"Out of...?
"5.2"
"And what rank was that?"
"8"
"Out of...?"
"About 300."
"Phew...what'd the valedictorian have?"
"Probably a 5.something."
Looking again at the little boy before his next question (I can imagine how strange all this talk of numbers might be to him), the man says, "now let me ask you this. What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I don't know yet," I say with a chuckle and a casual toss of my hands into the air.
"That's the right answer," he says, pointing emphatically. "You know, it worries me when you ask kids these days and they think they know exactly...I remember being in grad school and thinking, 'well, what now?' Podiatry school, I guess."
"Yeah..."
"OK, well thanks for talking with us."
"Oh, sure. Enjoy your walk!"
"Yeah, we'll try not to get lost."
Huh. Thanks, dude. It's nice to be reminded of the credentials on paper that say I'm worthy of being here...If my sense of academic stimualtion weren't enough to keep me going, that's something else to keep in mind: the standard system for finding smart people says I have potential. So I'm supposed to do something with it.
There's a vast store of knowledge out there, and the prospect of being able to dive into it is at once exhilarating and terrifying, like looking off a high-dive into the deep pool below. Once you jump, you can't pause mid-spin and chill by the side of the pool with friends. You have to see it through and hope they'll be cheering and waving from the stands when you emerge, saturated, accomplished.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Pond-ed!!
So I decided it would be nice to read by Botany Pond. It's a lovely little corner of a campus already designated as a Botanic Garden, with lilies and nice shrubs and ducks and fish and turtles. As I perched on the stone edge of the bridge over the water, I swung my bag around by its shoulder strap, and was reminded instantly of the downside of keeping my two most used--and most important--possessions in the outer, open pocket as I watched my cell phone and UC ID plop neatly into the pond below me. Seeing them sink rapidly into the murky, algae-rich depths, I didn't think twice before rolling up my pant legs and sleeves, taking off my shoes and watch, and lowering myself tentatively in after them. Oh good! It isn't that deep! The ID I snatched up right away--that was close. But the phone was giving me more trouble. It was right there, wasn't it? Forging ahead without the least concern for my quasi-nice pants, I started blindly groping through the mud and plantlife at the bottom of the pond. A lady nearby seemed...intrigued...by my actions. "I dropped my cellphone in here!" I called out, laughing. She stood by for support. Soon another couple came over. I explained again. "If you put it in an oven on really low temperature it'll dry out. A friend of mine did that. Though it melted a little." At this point it did seem foolish to think the phone would still work but I felt compelled to fish it out, because it shouldn't be so danged hard to find it anyway, because there was still a chance I could salvage it, because why would I just leave an old cell phone in botany pond? and because I'd gone that far already, I wasn't going to give up then. I was encouraged in the pursuit by the spectacle that it must have made for passersby (there was even a tour group marveling at the pond in awe just as the incident happened!!) And it made me feel very in tune with nature...having to rely solely on tactile sensation to feel for the lumpy, out-of-place technology amid a world of natural wonder, and, well...guck. Man, it was taking a long time though. It was nice to have that lady to keep me company...Finally: I decided to approach the task with more of an algorithm by going to the far edge of the space I knew it had to be contained in and working by way back to the ledge it fell from. Gently, carefully, back and forth and forward, like a...lawnmower...ish... What's that? Oh, an altoids tin...hmm...hopefully whoever put it there didn't litter intentionally...a little further and...AHA!!! Victory!!! Oh dear, little thing, let's get you cleaned up. I had a brief urge to do the backstroke, prolong the spectacle while I was already wet, but, my purpose being satisfied, it would be inappropriate...and startle the ducks. I crawled out and biked home, beeming at the adventure. Processing only very absentmidedly the prospect of having to get a new cellphone, I separated the parts, wiped off the traces of mud, and waited for them to dry. I tried a little later in the day to put it back together and test it, but all that happened was a slight change in the color of the screen and a dreadful static noise. Ah! Separate again...wait until tomorrow. I tried again the next day and suddenly-miraculously-everything seemed in tip-top shape! Maybe a few little shortcut keys have switched functions, but everything's operating. Yay! So this time it definitely wasn't a vain pursuit, and the hassle was well worth the adventure and the story to be told. :)
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
A Rolling Stone
"A rolling stone gathers no moss."
Only recently did I give any thought to that proverb, at once finally realizing what it means and that it is all too applicable to my life. I am a rolling stone, never putting forth energy, effort or attention into one project, activity, relationship, what have you, for a long enough period to gather moss. I think my initial reaction to the proverb (without giving any thought to its full & comprehensive meaning) was that moss is an unwanted accumulation (you know, something along the lines of "a rolling stone doesn't pick up...unwanted...scummy covering..." whatever that might have meant had I taken time to deconstruct it.) But no, moss is squishy and soft and moist and slows you down...moss, like roots, means permanence, stability, familiarity, comfort. And I am lacking these things. I am moss-less.
To give this realization a more literal setting: When I got here (and even in my imagination before I came) I took joy in bouncing from one random activity to the next. There are all kinds of potential outings on a given weekend--it's Chicago, after all--but there's also abundant happenings right on campus...and during the week, too. I enjoyed the frivolous galavanting, but after a while I began to feel stretched thin...the last reserves of butter over so much bread. It's hard to build relationships to people when you see them invariably and haven't made any commitment to the group in which you met them...And I realized that while I've certainly "made friends," I am too much of a floater between groups of them to know who to contact first when I want to invite people to something...(particularly if it's a one-person-only-invite...)
So is the answer to all this to let myself stay in one place and gather moss? What if rolling is in my nature? If it's inevitable, forcing myself to stay in one place and build moss will only mean I leave that moss uprooted and hurt when I start downhill again, gathering speed...
Only recently did I give any thought to that proverb, at once finally realizing what it means and that it is all too applicable to my life. I am a rolling stone, never putting forth energy, effort or attention into one project, activity, relationship, what have you, for a long enough period to gather moss. I think my initial reaction to the proverb (without giving any thought to its full & comprehensive meaning) was that moss is an unwanted accumulation (you know, something along the lines of "a rolling stone doesn't pick up...unwanted...scummy covering..." whatever that might have meant had I taken time to deconstruct it.) But no, moss is squishy and soft and moist and slows you down...moss, like roots, means permanence, stability, familiarity, comfort. And I am lacking these things. I am moss-less.
To give this realization a more literal setting: When I got here (and even in my imagination before I came) I took joy in bouncing from one random activity to the next. There are all kinds of potential outings on a given weekend--it's Chicago, after all--but there's also abundant happenings right on campus...and during the week, too. I enjoyed the frivolous galavanting, but after a while I began to feel stretched thin...the last reserves of butter over so much bread. It's hard to build relationships to people when you see them invariably and haven't made any commitment to the group in which you met them...And I realized that while I've certainly "made friends," I am too much of a floater between groups of them to know who to contact first when I want to invite people to something...(particularly if it's a one-person-only-invite...)
So is the answer to all this to let myself stay in one place and gather moss? What if rolling is in my nature? If it's inevitable, forcing myself to stay in one place and build moss will only mean I leave that moss uprooted and hurt when I start downhill again, gathering speed...
Saturday, April 28, 2007
My Day as a Fugitive
WARNING: The following story recounts some very foolish actions. It may worry mothers...
So I needed to get to the bike shop, which is at 61st & Blackstone. I live at 59th and Blackstone, so I figured, yay, straight-shot. But no, there's a building in the way which re-routes you a block out of the way. Well, that's not that bad, really, except I was really curious to see if I could find a shortcut (I'm not sure if this was in the interest of efficiency or because I wanted to vary things a bit by not retracing the exact path I had taken to drop my bike off for repairs the day before...) So I decided to be adventurous and work my way around the side of the building where there is no sidewalk. Can I squeeze by it? Well, not officially, because the property butts up against the railroad tracks. Oh, alright then... I'm used to walking along the railroad tracks back home, so I scramble up the part of the nice stone boundary that has landslided and work my way up the steep incline of gravel. Nearing the top, I see the gleaming rails of the 3 or 4 heavily frequented tracks--Metra, the commuter rail, Amtrak, and the South Shore line to Indiana all pass by here on a given day. OK, so I'll stay off them at all costs and keep a lookout for loud rumblings in either direction. Eventually the incline is a bit too steep and I decide to carefully tiptoe along on the outer wooden trim of the rails, keeping very alert for said rumblings... Reaching the latitude of the bike store, I mush my way down the slope and find: hmm...a barbed wire fence keeping me from my destination. Well, let's see here. I could give up and turn back after all that fuss on the railroad tracks, OR I could use some more ingenuity from my youthful days in Globeville (plus the bold rebelliousness I have never seen much use for...) and find a place where the fence is loose enough to pull it out and crawl under it. Hmm...not here...not there....Here! I push my purse and sweater through ahead of me and set them on the stone ledge and voila! Through I go! Not bad! Now, perched atop the stone ledge with about a five-foot drop to the ground, which is littered with random piles of construction materials that don't seem to have an immediate purpose: scraps from roofing maybe, a few large concrete bricks...I seem to be in the back yard of a company who definitely wants to keep people OUT: facing me at a short distance across this rectangular concrete expanse is yet another barbed wire fence. Crap. I consider my options: Crawl back now? At this point I can see the sign on the bike store. So close! But I'm not sure that I'm trapped. Just out of sight there seems a slight possibility that there is a gate, accessible by a person, like myself, inside this little yard. Somewhere during these deliberations a man opens a door across the street (on the other side of the outermost barbed wire fence) and I duck (which is more aptly described as, I lay my body against the concrete wall I was already sitting on). If it hadn't occurred to me earlier that this is a perfect setting for some cheasy old action movie about a fugitive, the thought crossed my mind around this time, along with the sudden rush of fear-related adrenaline when I thought, "My phone isn't on silent...if it rings it will give me away!" Now the thing to remember in all this is that I had no intention of breaking and entering...and I didn't think I had any inert drive to push the limit, so my mood through all of this was more passive than you might imagine...like a curious dog who goes sniffing where its nose suggests there will be something interesting. So with a reasonable sense of fear from the guy who just exited the building and seems to have gotten in a car, but also thinking, hey, it'd be nice to have someone to shout to if I jump down, find myself caged, and have no other way out, I take a few moments of weighing how likely it is I will break my leg in jumping off the ledge I've been sitting on, the first fence to my back, and decide if I swing myself sideways, clutch on with my arms until my feet are closer to the ground, and then let go, there's not much risk. Bingo! Good plan. A quick jaunt over and--yup. The gate is locked. Huh. Any rational person could have told you to expect that. What well-run company would take the trouble to install a barbed wire fence along the street AND one along the railroad tracks where NO NORMAL PERSON WALKS and then leave a huge gate swinging open? Still, I couldn't overcome the hope that I had found a...well I can't very well call it a "short cut"... but an alternative route to the bike store. Hokay. So. Umm....what now? Can I get back the way I came? First problem to tackle: climbing up that five-foot conrete wall. Aha! Think like Mario...or...one of those video game characters that jumps on stuff...use the miscellaneous piles of stuff to leverage your way up! Oh, but I have to be sure to get up near a spot where the fence has enough give for me to get back under unpoked by the bent prongs at the end of the chainlink...(I can't just hoist myself up and ooch my way along the wall because there are huge bushy plants sticky out of the fence from the railroad side, obstructing any lateral progress I might try to make...) OK, found a pile, got a grip, up, excellent. Under. Phew. Up the slope. Whee. Hmm, that looks an awful lot like a train. No problem, just a little butt-sliding down the hill, a casual sit to wait as it passes...do-dee-do. Bye, Mr. Train! Back up to level footing at train level, quickly, quickly...(though carefully, of course ;-) Yay there's the landslidey pile I came from--the end of that dreaded fence!! Back on grass!! I'm alive!!!
Hmm...stick to streets from now on...a biker wouldn't do such dreadfully silly things anyway...(she certainly wouldn't be able to fit her bike under any fences!)
The moral I've chosen to take from all this (one could make a case for many): The pursuit of adventure may be disguised as the pursuit of efficiency, but in the end it's all just vain pursuit.
So I needed to get to the bike shop, which is at 61st & Blackstone. I live at 59th and Blackstone, so I figured, yay, straight-shot. But no, there's a building in the way which re-routes you a block out of the way. Well, that's not that bad, really, except I was really curious to see if I could find a shortcut (I'm not sure if this was in the interest of efficiency or because I wanted to vary things a bit by not retracing the exact path I had taken to drop my bike off for repairs the day before...) So I decided to be adventurous and work my way around the side of the building where there is no sidewalk. Can I squeeze by it? Well, not officially, because the property butts up against the railroad tracks. Oh, alright then... I'm used to walking along the railroad tracks back home, so I scramble up the part of the nice stone boundary that has landslided and work my way up the steep incline of gravel. Nearing the top, I see the gleaming rails of the 3 or 4 heavily frequented tracks--Metra, the commuter rail, Amtrak, and the South Shore line to Indiana all pass by here on a given day. OK, so I'll stay off them at all costs and keep a lookout for loud rumblings in either direction. Eventually the incline is a bit too steep and I decide to carefully tiptoe along on the outer wooden trim of the rails, keeping very alert for said rumblings... Reaching the latitude of the bike store, I mush my way down the slope and find: hmm...a barbed wire fence keeping me from my destination. Well, let's see here. I could give up and turn back after all that fuss on the railroad tracks, OR I could use some more ingenuity from my youthful days in Globeville (plus the bold rebelliousness I have never seen much use for...) and find a place where the fence is loose enough to pull it out and crawl under it. Hmm...not here...not there....Here! I push my purse and sweater through ahead of me and set them on the stone ledge and voila! Through I go! Not bad! Now, perched atop the stone ledge with about a five-foot drop to the ground, which is littered with random piles of construction materials that don't seem to have an immediate purpose: scraps from roofing maybe, a few large concrete bricks...I seem to be in the back yard of a company who definitely wants to keep people OUT: facing me at a short distance across this rectangular concrete expanse is yet another barbed wire fence. Crap. I consider my options: Crawl back now? At this point I can see the sign on the bike store. So close! But I'm not sure that I'm trapped. Just out of sight there seems a slight possibility that there is a gate, accessible by a person, like myself, inside this little yard. Somewhere during these deliberations a man opens a door across the street (on the other side of the outermost barbed wire fence) and I duck (which is more aptly described as, I lay my body against the concrete wall I was already sitting on). If it hadn't occurred to me earlier that this is a perfect setting for some cheasy old action movie about a fugitive, the thought crossed my mind around this time, along with the sudden rush of fear-related adrenaline when I thought, "My phone isn't on silent...if it rings it will give me away!" Now the thing to remember in all this is that I had no intention of breaking and entering...and I didn't think I had any inert drive to push the limit, so my mood through all of this was more passive than you might imagine...like a curious dog who goes sniffing where its nose suggests there will be something interesting. So with a reasonable sense of fear from the guy who just exited the building and seems to have gotten in a car, but also thinking, hey, it'd be nice to have someone to shout to if I jump down, find myself caged, and have no other way out, I take a few moments of weighing how likely it is I will break my leg in jumping off the ledge I've been sitting on, the first fence to my back, and decide if I swing myself sideways, clutch on with my arms until my feet are closer to the ground, and then let go, there's not much risk. Bingo! Good plan. A quick jaunt over and--yup. The gate is locked. Huh. Any rational person could have told you to expect that. What well-run company would take the trouble to install a barbed wire fence along the street AND one along the railroad tracks where NO NORMAL PERSON WALKS and then leave a huge gate swinging open? Still, I couldn't overcome the hope that I had found a...well I can't very well call it a "short cut"... but an alternative route to the bike store. Hokay. So. Umm....what now? Can I get back the way I came? First problem to tackle: climbing up that five-foot conrete wall. Aha! Think like Mario...or...one of those video game characters that jumps on stuff...use the miscellaneous piles of stuff to leverage your way up! Oh, but I have to be sure to get up near a spot where the fence has enough give for me to get back under unpoked by the bent prongs at the end of the chainlink...(I can't just hoist myself up and ooch my way along the wall because there are huge bushy plants sticky out of the fence from the railroad side, obstructing any lateral progress I might try to make...) OK, found a pile, got a grip, up, excellent. Under. Phew. Up the slope. Whee. Hmm, that looks an awful lot like a train. No problem, just a little butt-sliding down the hill, a casual sit to wait as it passes...do-dee-do. Bye, Mr. Train! Back up to level footing at train level, quickly, quickly...(though carefully, of course ;-) Yay there's the landslidey pile I came from--the end of that dreaded fence!! Back on grass!! I'm alive!!!
Hmm...stick to streets from now on...a biker wouldn't do such dreadfully silly things anyway...(she certainly wouldn't be able to fit her bike under any fences!)
The moral I've chosen to take from all this (one could make a case for many): The pursuit of adventure may be disguised as the pursuit of efficiency, but in the end it's all just vain pursuit.
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