Everything hurts. My back hurts, particularly a point over my right shoulder blade. My hands hurt, particularly my right hand if I try to clench it. My feet hurt, particularly the top of my left foot, where the tendons are. All of my joints are stiff, particularly my right wrist and ankle. All this after getting a massage on Tuesday and spending the week doing something other than sitting on my couch with my laptop on my lap, writing.
Talk about Sitzfleisch. I looked it up on Wiktionary: "The ability to endure or carry on with an activity," from the German for "the ability to sit still." I have another definition: "The way your body feels after you have been sitting still for five months working on your book manuscript."
It creeps up on you. Back in the winter, when it was so cold that it took a full five minutes to get the layers on before taking the dog out for her midday romp, I just thought I felt stiff because I had so many clothes on. Then the layers came off, the days warmed up, and for some reason, I didn't. I thought to myself, "You've been sitting still for too long, you need to start walking more." So I stopped hanging out with the dog in the park--which, in any case, was filling up with human rompers--and started taking her round the neighborhood again. Some days it would take me a whole block or more before my foot loosened up and I could actually walk.*
And then, as a treat for finishing my discussion of Richard this week, I decided I needed a massage. You know, to get the kinks out and help me relax. Well, I've felt bad after massages before, but never this bad. Days later, I can still feel the toxins pooled up in my joints, and I've never had a problem with the right side of my back clenching up--it's always been my left, after I overstretched it once ten or twelve years ago while in shoulder stand. Clearly, I've been holding a lot of tension in my back, not to mention my arms, hands, legs, feet, and pretty much everywhere else.
Who knew? Who knew what a toll simply sitting still would take? I realize now what I've been doing to myself, sitting with my laptop on my lap, apparently so comfortable, but in fact forcing my legs to hold still for hours and hours and hours on end. My arms and wrists are better off than they have been in years when I've worked sitting at my desk, but I had no idea how hard my legs were working when "all" I was doing was sitting still.
Lesson to self: take the timer seriously and when it goes off, get up! Move around a little bit, don't just check your email or start surfing the web. I still have four more months to go before I have to go back to the classroom, and I'm a little worried. I know what I need to write--but can I afford to sit still long enough to write it?
Good thing I have another massage scheduled next week. I rather suspect I'm going to need it.
*I'm pretty sure my foot is hurting thanks to the bursitis in my knee. At first I thought it was from fencing, but I had also been noticing that my thighs were unusually tight, which now I realize is a consequence of sitting so still with my laptop on my lap.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Saturday, May 11, 2013
The Mighty Huntress
After three-and-a-half years' constant practice, the Dragon Baby caught her first squirrel this week. There we were, almost home from our lunchtime walk, and one minute she was next to me on the sidewalk, while the next she was emerging from the other side of a tree with a young squirrel in her mouth. It all happened so fast, I wasn't quite sure what to think, never mind do, so I stood there, entranced, as the squirrel squeaked and the Dragon Baby tried to shake it just as she has her toys so many times. But squirrels, unlike stuffed hedgehogs, have teeth and claws and muscles with which they can fight and move. Just as quickly as she had caught the squirrel, suddenly it was away back up the tree, barking and looking down at us as the Dragon Baby, undaunted, settled back down on the sidewalk so as to keep an eye on her prey.
And I thought it was bad when she ate the baby mouse! When she caught the squirrel, my first thought was that she was surely going to kill it--the shaking was so vigorous and the squirrel looked so fragile--but apparently squirrels are tougher than baby dragons, at least inexperienced ones. But was it a bad thing that she had caught it? I worried that the squirrel would hurt her, but once she had it in her mouth, it didn't seem like there was anything I could do, nor was I sure I really wanted to--it was her prize, after all. I was also somewhat in shock: she chases squirrels all the time and had never once come anywhere close to catching one. Just the other day, in fact, I had been musing over doing a post about how dogs are more or less the embodiment of hope: the Dragon Baby has been trying and trying and trying to catch a squirrel pretty much since she first went outside, and yet never once did anyone tell her she was going to be able to.* She simply kept trying because it was fun and the squirrels were there to chase. If only (I had been thinking to myself) I could get myself to practice writing or fencing or fiddling with that abandon, with no thought that I might ever succeed, but simply for the joy of the chase. And then she caught one! No wonder I was in shock.
When I posted a status update on Facebook about our adventure, my sister commented that her dog Paka caught a squirrel a few years ago and now "fancies herself a big huntress," to which I replied: "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. [The Dragon Baby] was pretty impossible when all she could do was chase them." But it's funny: the past several days, I thought sure that she would be even more squirrel-mad (if that were possible) than she had been previously, but she's actually pretty much the same. As if having caught one, while a great adventure, wasn't that great a surprise, so confident has she always been in the chase.
You and I both know that there is an important lesson in this.
*More to the point, when we're walking, I actively try to discourage her by telling her that the squirrels are evil and up to no good--plus I don't want her running off after one and going into the street.**
**If you're wondering, I let her chase them when we are in the backyard or at the park in the fenced area. She spends most of her time in the backyard banging up against the wooden fence as the squirrels run along the top and at the park trying to bounce her way up the trees while the squirrels leap from branch to branch out of the playground. The squirrels know very well what they're doing, as does she.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Medieval Morality for Modern Sinners
Saturday, April 27, 2013
In the Pines
I had a(nother) breakthrough this week thinking about what it means to practice playing my fiddle. Let me see if I can describe it for you. You see, I suddenly figured out how to get inside the music.
Does that make any sense? There I was, trying to get the last turn of phrase in Old Joe Clark down, playing it over and over again, and still tripping up the same place every time, and it occurred to me that I needed to break it down even further. Not C#-B-A-G-A-A, but just the transition from A-G, that is what I needed to practice. I could do it fairly cleanly if I was doing a downstroke on the A, followed by an upstroke on the G, but if I hit the A on the upstroke, I invariably fumbled the G on the downstroke. I'm just doing saw strokes in this piece, which means I am not able to keep the same bowing pattern from repetition to repetition (unlike for In the Pines, in which we learned a bowing pattern that maintains the same strokes from repetition to repetition), so I needed to be able to play the phrase smoothly from whichever direction I came at it. Think jump rope and trying to enter in the "front door" with the rope moving towards you from the top as opposed to "back door" with it coming at you from the bottom. One way is always easier, so you need to learn to be comfortable with the other way, too. Or think fencing a left-handed fencer if you've only practiced with right-handed fencers. Or taking the man's part in a dance if you've been learning the woman's part (like in square dancing). Somehow, I needed to get inside of the movement, really pay attention to why I was tripping up when the strokes went one way rather than another.
Which is when it hit me. When I would practice piano as a child, I always thought the point was to play the piece from beginning to end without making any mistakes. Which was, you guessed it, pretty much impossible when you first started learning a piece (and, therefore, ever). So I would start, play until I made a mistake, then stop [insert appropriate expressions of frustration]...and start at the beginning again. I have no idea why, but it never occurred to me simply to stop and practice the part that had tripped me up. I had the sense that the important thing was to play the piece through, that it existed only on a continuum, and that if I messed up at any point, I had somehow broken it and had to start again. Not only was this probably the single most frustrating way to learn to play a difficult instrument, it was also (I now realize) completely wrong, like learning to write without ever learning to spell. It meant that I thought of what I played only in terms of how many notes there were and how fast I could play them without having to stop. I never had any sense of how the music worked, as it were, from inside, why this note followed on that one, why it was hard to make my fingers hit these keys in that order. It also meant that I never quite learned how to play the tricky bits, especially the turns, because I never paused long enough to isolate them and play just those bits over and over again until they seemed easy.
Until yesterday, when I suddenly became conscious of what it meant to try to play these notes with this instrument, and, therefore, of what I needed to pay attention to. The point was not to play the full turn, it was to take it apart even further, down to the smallest movement, and then build it back up again, little by little, paying attention to exactly how my bow was moving when I tripped up, and then practicing that bit until it felt natural. I needed to feel it out, really attend to each note individually, not just as a sequence that I had someone learned as a muscle memory, but be able to stop and understand the pattern, just like learning to spell. I might know how the whole song was supposed to sound from listening to it on a recording, but until I had a feel for each individual note, I wouldn't really know the piece, even if I could play it from beginning to end without making a mistake. I needed, if you will, to pay attention to the trees, not just the wood.
Does this make any sense at all?
Does that make any sense? There I was, trying to get the last turn of phrase in Old Joe Clark down, playing it over and over again, and still tripping up the same place every time, and it occurred to me that I needed to break it down even further. Not C#-B-A-G-A-A, but just the transition from A-G, that is what I needed to practice. I could do it fairly cleanly if I was doing a downstroke on the A, followed by an upstroke on the G, but if I hit the A on the upstroke, I invariably fumbled the G on the downstroke. I'm just doing saw strokes in this piece, which means I am not able to keep the same bowing pattern from repetition to repetition (unlike for In the Pines, in which we learned a bowing pattern that maintains the same strokes from repetition to repetition), so I needed to be able to play the phrase smoothly from whichever direction I came at it. Think jump rope and trying to enter in the "front door" with the rope moving towards you from the top as opposed to "back door" with it coming at you from the bottom. One way is always easier, so you need to learn to be comfortable with the other way, too. Or think fencing a left-handed fencer if you've only practiced with right-handed fencers. Or taking the man's part in a dance if you've been learning the woman's part (like in square dancing). Somehow, I needed to get inside of the movement, really pay attention to why I was tripping up when the strokes went one way rather than another.
Which is when it hit me. When I would practice piano as a child, I always thought the point was to play the piece from beginning to end without making any mistakes. Which was, you guessed it, pretty much impossible when you first started learning a piece (and, therefore, ever). So I would start, play until I made a mistake, then stop [insert appropriate expressions of frustration]...and start at the beginning again. I have no idea why, but it never occurred to me simply to stop and practice the part that had tripped me up. I had the sense that the important thing was to play the piece through, that it existed only on a continuum, and that if I messed up at any point, I had somehow broken it and had to start again. Not only was this probably the single most frustrating way to learn to play a difficult instrument, it was also (I now realize) completely wrong, like learning to write without ever learning to spell. It meant that I thought of what I played only in terms of how many notes there were and how fast I could play them without having to stop. I never had any sense of how the music worked, as it were, from inside, why this note followed on that one, why it was hard to make my fingers hit these keys in that order. It also meant that I never quite learned how to play the tricky bits, especially the turns, because I never paused long enough to isolate them and play just those bits over and over again until they seemed easy.
Until yesterday, when I suddenly became conscious of what it meant to try to play these notes with this instrument, and, therefore, of what I needed to pay attention to. The point was not to play the full turn, it was to take it apart even further, down to the smallest movement, and then build it back up again, little by little, paying attention to exactly how my bow was moving when I tripped up, and then practicing that bit until it felt natural. I needed to feel it out, really attend to each note individually, not just as a sequence that I had someone learned as a muscle memory, but be able to stop and understand the pattern, just like learning to spell. I might know how the whole song was supposed to sound from listening to it on a recording, but until I had a feel for each individual note, I wouldn't really know the piece, even if I could play it from beginning to end without making a mistake. I needed, if you will, to pay attention to the trees, not just the wood.
Does this make any sense at all?
Friday, April 26, 2013
A Taxonomy of Otherness
You. No deep philosophy here, simply the ordinary observation that human beings are creatures with consciousness of self who see other human beings as likewise possessing consciousness, but a consciousness distinct from their own, thinking its own thoughts. That is to say, I have an "I" who sees "you" as distinct from myself, but I also believe that you have thoughts about yourself just as I have thoughts about myself. I'm not sure this is worth belaboring, but it is important to remember where we start from.
Them. Again, a neutral term, simply to say that human beings, while seeing themselves as distinct individuals, are also prone to identify with other human beings in groups. Those of us standing over here are different from those of you standing over there. Groups form and dissolve all the time: we are the ones who arrived early, they are the ones who arrived late. We are the ones who have seen the movie, they are the ones who haven't. Dr. Seuss explored this phenomenon brilliantly in "The Sneetches."
Neighbor. Anyone who is near to us, extended by Our Lord Jesus Christ to include all other human beings, whom we are commanded to love. Often the cause of our greatest frustrations, particularly when it comes to the case of boundaries.
Opponent. A slightly less neutral term, but not necessarily an adversarial one. Athletes have opponents against whom they test themselves, but they are also in an important sense dependent upon their opponents to bring out the best in themselves. Having an opponent may be simply situational: this fencer is my opponent in this bout, but at another time we may root for each other on the same team.
Outsider. Now we start to get into the experience of others as somehow undesirable. An outsider is a persistent "they," someone who does not belong to a particular social group. This is an experience that almost everyone has at one time or another, most painfully during adolescence. Certain social groups practice making others feel like outsiders quite purposefully; other groups are unconscious of the fact that those outside feel excluded.
Alien. A stranger, someone coming from outside. Threatening primarily in the sense of being an unknown, not yet belonging to any particular group. We worry about aliens because we don't know who they are; they might be like us, they might not.
Foreigner. Technically, also an alien, but with the sense of coming from a particular place, not just outside. Not necessarily threatening, except to those who are anxious to identify themselves primarily with those whom they know at home.
Barbarian. This is perhaps the trickiest term to define. Barbarians lack certain customs typically associated with civilization, that is, living in cities, but sometimes those living in cities behave as if they did not understand civilized customs.
Outlaw. Someone who has been declared outside the law of a particular community. Dangerous insofar as the law is intended to protect others from harm; potentially appealing if the laws are considered unjust.
Enemy. None of the above are necessarily our enemies, but this does not mean that there is no such thing. An enemy is someone who actively wishes us harm, either to assert his will over us or to destroy us utterly. Enemies may be mutual, but simply having an enemy does not make one unjust. Our Lord Jesus Christ taught us to love our enemies, but he did not deny that we would have enemies.
Monster. Dragons are the prototypical monsters: predatory, terrifying, but essentially amoral. A predator does not feel guilty about killing its prey anymore than a cat feels guilty about killing a mouse. Human beings may behave like monsters, but monsters are not human.
Demon. Demons are not human, they are fallen angels. They are intelligences who have been corrupted and who can no longer understand the good. They cannot hurt us directly, only influence our thoughts, but they are relentless in their efforts to drive us to despair.
Them. Again, a neutral term, simply to say that human beings, while seeing themselves as distinct individuals, are also prone to identify with other human beings in groups. Those of us standing over here are different from those of you standing over there. Groups form and dissolve all the time: we are the ones who arrived early, they are the ones who arrived late. We are the ones who have seen the movie, they are the ones who haven't. Dr. Seuss explored this phenomenon brilliantly in "The Sneetches."
Neighbor. Anyone who is near to us, extended by Our Lord Jesus Christ to include all other human beings, whom we are commanded to love. Often the cause of our greatest frustrations, particularly when it comes to the case of boundaries.
Opponent. A slightly less neutral term, but not necessarily an adversarial one. Athletes have opponents against whom they test themselves, but they are also in an important sense dependent upon their opponents to bring out the best in themselves. Having an opponent may be simply situational: this fencer is my opponent in this bout, but at another time we may root for each other on the same team.
Outsider. Now we start to get into the experience of others as somehow undesirable. An outsider is a persistent "they," someone who does not belong to a particular social group. This is an experience that almost everyone has at one time or another, most painfully during adolescence. Certain social groups practice making others feel like outsiders quite purposefully; other groups are unconscious of the fact that those outside feel excluded.
Alien. A stranger, someone coming from outside. Threatening primarily in the sense of being an unknown, not yet belonging to any particular group. We worry about aliens because we don't know who they are; they might be like us, they might not.
Foreigner. Technically, also an alien, but with the sense of coming from a particular place, not just outside. Not necessarily threatening, except to those who are anxious to identify themselves primarily with those whom they know at home.
Barbarian. This is perhaps the trickiest term to define. Barbarians lack certain customs typically associated with civilization, that is, living in cities, but sometimes those living in cities behave as if they did not understand civilized customs.
Outlaw. Someone who has been declared outside the law of a particular community. Dangerous insofar as the law is intended to protect others from harm; potentially appealing if the laws are considered unjust.
Enemy. None of the above are necessarily our enemies, but this does not mean that there is no such thing. An enemy is someone who actively wishes us harm, either to assert his will over us or to destroy us utterly. Enemies may be mutual, but simply having an enemy does not make one unjust. Our Lord Jesus Christ taught us to love our enemies, but he did not deny that we would have enemies.
Monster. Dragons are the prototypical monsters: predatory, terrifying, but essentially amoral. A predator does not feel guilty about killing its prey anymore than a cat feels guilty about killing a mouse. Human beings may behave like monsters, but monsters are not human.
Demon. Demons are not human, they are fallen angels. They are intelligences who have been corrupted and who can no longer understand the good. They cannot hurt us directly, only influence our thoughts, but they are relentless in their efforts to drive us to despair.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
A Theory of Demons
Demons are devious. They disguise themselves as angels of light, perhaps even friends, but underneath they are nothing but liars.
Demons are rational intelligences, which means, like angels, that they are capable of logical thought, but because they are fallen, their reason is corrupted so that it cannot lead them to understand the good.
Demons hate confession because confession leads to repentance and doing penitence for one's sins. They will do anything they can to prevent us from confessing; above all, they will try to shame us (by, for example, calling us names like "petty, envious, and self-pitying") when we do.
Nor can they understand the desire to make a confession. As my own personal demon PapaFreeak put it: "I think you fascinate me because you provide access to a mentality that is genuinely foreign to me." Being fallen angels, demons cannot themselves admit to having sins; they cannot confess their own sin of turning away from God. Rather, in their pride, they see confession only as weakness, never humility. This is one of the reasons why they both hate ("I find about 75% of what you post to be odious") and are so fascinated by human beings who, through the grace of God, are able to acknowledge and feel repentance for their sins.
Demons are dangerous. Do not be deceived. Do not listen to them because nothing that they say is true, only distortions of the truth. Their leader is the father of lies (John 8:44), and like him, they cannot hear the word of God.
Demons are rational intelligences, which means, like angels, that they are capable of logical thought, but because they are fallen, their reason is corrupted so that it cannot lead them to understand the good.
Demons hate confession because confession leads to repentance and doing penitence for one's sins. They will do anything they can to prevent us from confessing; above all, they will try to shame us (by, for example, calling us names like "petty, envious, and self-pitying") when we do.
Nor can they understand the desire to make a confession. As my own personal demon PapaFreeak put it: "I think you fascinate me because you provide access to a mentality that is genuinely foreign to me." Being fallen angels, demons cannot themselves admit to having sins; they cannot confess their own sin of turning away from God. Rather, in their pride, they see confession only as weakness, never humility. This is one of the reasons why they both hate ("I find about 75% of what you post to be odious") and are so fascinated by human beings who, through the grace of God, are able to acknowledge and feel repentance for their sins.
Demons are dangerous. Do not be deceived. Do not listen to them because nothing that they say is true, only distortions of the truth. Their leader is the father of lies (John 8:44), and like him, they cannot hear the word of God.
Monday, April 22, 2013
What Now?
I think I overdid it a little bit on the blog posts this weekend, thanks to my demon PapaFreeak's calling me such lovely names. But it is a good thing (I said he was my friend!--ahem): it has helped me clarify a number of things that have been rattling around in my head these past several months as the work on my book has proceeded apace. I really meant it when I said this morning that I have now confessed all of my deepest, pettiest, most envious thoughts. My therapist and I have been working on the biggest, scariest ones over the past couple of years, including several that are still (and will remain) TMI for such a public confession (ha! Take that PapaFreeak--I'm even worse than you think!), and I find myself suddenly at something of a loose end having told you yesterday about the oldest, deepest, and ugliest of my sins, my envy of my sister's physical beauty. I rather suspect I am not yet done with that one, but of the others that I have been working on, well, there's not much left to say.
Every so often I still think about having a house or getting a promotion, but with nothing like the urgency that I used to. I'm not sure it would really make much difference to me anymore, now that I've learned how to deal with the demons that attack when I sit down to write, which is all I ever really wanted to be able to do. If you'd told me five years ago that keeping this blog would see me through not only some of the most difficult personal times of my life as well as teach me how to write without drama and to fence without losing my concentration, I wouldn't have believed that it was even possible. And now look at me: all my prayers answered, and then some! Okay, so there are always going to be some stragglers among my sins, just itching to catch me up, but the big ones have nothing like the hold on me now that they did even a year or so ago. I know, I know, don't tempt the demons (I am sure PapaFreeak will be back to test me), but it is possible to learn how to arm oneself against them, just like the monks of the desert always said.
Which makes me wonder how best, if at all, to continue with this blog. I am loathe to give it up, it has given me such comfort over the years, but I am not sure that I can continue with the same tone. Even I don't like listening to myself work through my anxieties much anymore. There was a time, not so very long ago, that this was the only place that I could come for relief, but perhaps you've noticed the drop-off in posting over the past couple of months. Most of the time, if I feel a bit anxious, I just repeat my mantras: "Brief, Regular Sessions. Deliberate Practice." And then I'm ready to write or fence or play my fiddle again. Frankly, having learned these lessons, I'm not quite sure what else there is to say, except "Practice, practice, practice, a little bit every day. Practice with attention and the willingness to be uncomfortable as you learn something new, using the discomfort to point you to things that you need to work on."
Hmmm. That's a little long for a mantra; clearly I still need to work on articulating the lessons that I've learned. But the lessons are good ones, very simple, but profound, as all the best lessons are. But, here's the question, do I need to keep writing about them? Or should I just concentrate on practicing, without spending so much time trying to put things into words? Except that that is what I do, put things into words. Plus, this was never meant to be so much a self-help blog (in the sense of providing advice for others) as it was a place for me to explore what I needed to work on, and I very much doubt that I am entirely finished with myself. How sad, no longer to be a work in progress! So maybe I will keep writing, even if it sets PapaFreeak's teeth on edge. (Isn't it fun having my own personal demon? Write so as to drive your demon crazy--now there's good advice.) But I do think that I need to find another frame for writing some of the other things I've been thinking about, something a little less personal than a confession. I know: another blog!
I'll let you know when I have it up and running....
By the by, this was my 1003rd post! "A Demon of My Very Own" was no. 1000. Which makes me wonder: have I really become that strong that I have conjured into existence my very own demon? Wow. St. Anthony would be impressed, don't you think? "'O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' She chortled in her joy!"
Every so often I still think about having a house or getting a promotion, but with nothing like the urgency that I used to. I'm not sure it would really make much difference to me anymore, now that I've learned how to deal with the demons that attack when I sit down to write, which is all I ever really wanted to be able to do. If you'd told me five years ago that keeping this blog would see me through not only some of the most difficult personal times of my life as well as teach me how to write without drama and to fence without losing my concentration, I wouldn't have believed that it was even possible. And now look at me: all my prayers answered, and then some! Okay, so there are always going to be some stragglers among my sins, just itching to catch me up, but the big ones have nothing like the hold on me now that they did even a year or so ago. I know, I know, don't tempt the demons (I am sure PapaFreeak will be back to test me), but it is possible to learn how to arm oneself against them, just like the monks of the desert always said.
Which makes me wonder how best, if at all, to continue with this blog. I am loathe to give it up, it has given me such comfort over the years, but I am not sure that I can continue with the same tone. Even I don't like listening to myself work through my anxieties much anymore. There was a time, not so very long ago, that this was the only place that I could come for relief, but perhaps you've noticed the drop-off in posting over the past couple of months. Most of the time, if I feel a bit anxious, I just repeat my mantras: "Brief, Regular Sessions. Deliberate Practice." And then I'm ready to write or fence or play my fiddle again. Frankly, having learned these lessons, I'm not quite sure what else there is to say, except "Practice, practice, practice, a little bit every day. Practice with attention and the willingness to be uncomfortable as you learn something new, using the discomfort to point you to things that you need to work on."
Hmmm. That's a little long for a mantra; clearly I still need to work on articulating the lessons that I've learned. But the lessons are good ones, very simple, but profound, as all the best lessons are. But, here's the question, do I need to keep writing about them? Or should I just concentrate on practicing, without spending so much time trying to put things into words? Except that that is what I do, put things into words. Plus, this was never meant to be so much a self-help blog (in the sense of providing advice for others) as it was a place for me to explore what I needed to work on, and I very much doubt that I am entirely finished with myself. How sad, no longer to be a work in progress! So maybe I will keep writing, even if it sets PapaFreeak's teeth on edge. (Isn't it fun having my own personal demon? Write so as to drive your demon crazy--now there's good advice.) But I do think that I need to find another frame for writing some of the other things I've been thinking about, something a little less personal than a confession. I know: another blog!
I'll let you know when I have it up and running....
By the by, this was my 1003rd post! "A Demon of My Very Own" was no. 1000. Which makes me wonder: have I really become that strong that I have conjured into existence my very own demon? Wow. St. Anthony would be impressed, don't you think? "'O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' She chortled in her joy!"
Miserere mei
And that's it, I've told you everything. All of my deepest, pettiest, most envious thoughts. All of my weaknesses, all of my sins. And you, Lord, have washed me clean. Even in my darkest moments, you have been there, whether I believed it or not. Guiding me, loving me, making manifest "the uncertain and hidden things of thy wisdom."
Have mercy on me, O God,
according to thy great mercy,
and according to the multitude of thy tender mercies
blot out my iniquity.
Wash me yet more from my iniquity,
and cleanse me from my sin,
for I know my iniquity
and my sin is always before me.
Truly, you have been here with me, in ways I could never have dreamed five years ago when I began this blog. Then, I was but a little bear, still so full of fear and anxiety. Now I am an older bear, older but thanks to you wiser. You have guided my footsteps into the desert and been with me as I wrestled with my demons, making me clean.
Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop,
and I shall be cleansed;
thou shalt wash me,
and I shall be made whiter than snow.
To my hearing thou shalt give joy and gladness,
and the bones that have been humbled shall rejoice.
Turn away thy face from my sins,
and blot out all my iniquities.
Create a clean heart in me, O God,
and renew a right spirit within my bowels.
Cast me not away from thy face,
and take not thy holy spirit from me.
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation,
and strengthen me with a perfect spirit.
Which you have. Five years ago I could not imagine being able to do the things that I can do now. Five years ago, I was blind, and you have made me see. You have given me strength when I nearly despaired, patience when all I wanted to do was rush, love when I would reject your many gifts. You have taught me how to learn and how to wait. You have shown me my sins in all their ugliness and taken them from me one by one. I'm not sure what I have left to write about anymore. You have given me such peace, all I can do is shout with joy.
I will teach the unjust thy ways,
and the wicked shall be converted to thee.
Deliver me from blood, O God, thou God of my salvation,
and my tongue shall extol thy justice.
O Lord, thou wilt open my lips,
and my mouth shall declare thy praise,
for if thou hadst desired sacrifice,
I would indeed have given it;
with burnt offerings thou wilt not be delighted.
A sacrifice to God is an afflicted spirit;
a contrite and humbled heart, O God,
thou wilt not despise.
Lord, accept the sacrifice of this blog, of the work that you have helped me do on myself through it. I thank you for the strength that you have given me as I confronted my sins. I thank you for the readers that have been on this journey with me all these years, both those who were with me from the beginning and those who have only recently joined. Help me to take the lessons that you have taught me and continue to share them with others, even as I continue to practice following your will.
Amen.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
The Picture of Bearian Gray
(This one is especially for you, PapaFreeak, 'cause I know you have no idea what it is like to be so "astoundingly petty, envious, and self-pitying" as I am. Enjoy! For all my other readers: this was a post that I had been mulling over for the past several days, before I got interrupted by the News of the Week last week--as didn't we all? It was meant, contrary to PapaFreeak's inability to read my "self-pitying" for what it actually is, as a way of working through some of the issues that I still have with my self-image, most particularly of myself as a woman. Feel free to give me a shout-out if anything I say here sounds at all familiar from your own experience.)
My sister, age 45, is expecting her first baby within the next week or two, just in time for her 46th birthday. And, yes, I'm jealous (I told you you'd enjoy this one, PapaFreeak). Partly because a small part of me still wishes that my husband and I had had at least one more child together, but mainly because I know that, even at 46, my sister will never experience what I did when my son was 2 and I was the ripe old age of 33: namely, being mistaken for my own child's grandmother one day as we were playing in the park. One minute, I was there, pushing my son on the baby swings, happy as a clam; the next, I had a woman apologizing to me, once she'd seen my face, "Oh, you just went gray early, didn't you?"
Well, duh, yes! Did I really look old enough to be a grandmother when I was 33? Mind you, it is not out of the question. If I had had my first child at 16, my 17-year-old daughter might have had a 2-year-old when I was 33, but it is pretty unlikely for someone who looks like me in our neighborhood (you know, 'cause we're so privileged and all). (Sorry, PapaFreeak is a really, really good demon. I told you he hit all my buttons.) In any case, this stranger mistook me, at age 33, for somebody, well, the age I am now, although in our neighborhood I am still pretty young to be a grandmother at age 48; not many of our graduate students have children in their first couple of years of study, which means families don't tend to get started until more around, well, age 30 or 31, and even that is a bit young. (I had only been in my job two years when my son was born, and most of my colleagues were shocked that I didn't wait at least until I had been renewed. Many of my colleagues have waited until after getting tenure to start their families. But I digress.)
It was odd to be mistaken for someone old enough to be the grandmother of a 2-year-old when I was 33. What do you think the odds are now that someone will mistake me for my sister's son's grandmother when we go down to visit her and her family (it's complicated, she has stepsons-to-be) this summer? Me, I wouldn't bet against it if you didn't want to lose your wager. It's going to happen, I just know it is. Why am I so certain? Because it already did happen the last time my sister and I were together four years ago and the teacher of the yoga class we went to together asked if I were my sister's mother. Yes, we were already there on our mats in our yoga clothes. Yes, she looked straight at both of us. No, she had never met my sister or me before, she was simply judging by the way we looked. And to her eyes, I looked like my sister's mother.
Fine, I have--how did PapaFreeak put it?--"intelligence, health, a supportive family, good income from meaningful work in a prestigious job," why in the hell should it matter to me whether some stranger in a yoga class assumes that my sister is my daughter? Because, of course, this is hardly the first time in our lives that people have mistaken our ages. I have looked, shall we say, middle-aged pretty much ever since I was 20. My sister still looks, oh, 25, give or take a year or two, despite being according to her birth year well into middle age. Certainly, I looked middle-aged enough four years ago--i.e. two years younger than she is now--to be mistaken for the mother of a 42-year-old (the age she was then). Our mother, just to put things in perspective, will be 75 this year. I was born when she was 26. And now I look old enough to be she, at least when I am standing (or sitting on a yoga mat) next to my sister.
You don't believe me? Okay, here we both are, in photos taken within the past month or so. That's me on the top, sitting at my laptop. That's her on the bottom, in a photo taken by her main squeeze.
I dare you: say I look just as beautiful and young as she does, give or take a couple years. (Mind you, my son and my husband would, but I always figure they're biased.) I would humiliate myself even further if I gave you full-length pictures of us, but I wanted to give myself a chance (certainly, it didn't help me when we were in yoga class together). No, it wouldn't make any difference if I "tried" to look "better," e.g. by coloring my hair (been there, done that after being mistaken for my son's grandmother in the park; my hair started falling out, and frankly I look better with it white, which it has been totally since I was 40). Face it: I look like exactly what I am: a middle-aged history professor. She looks like the daughter I never had.
I know, I know, I am supposed to be above all this, living the life of the mind as I do. Yeah, right. And women in the public sphere are never judged on how they look. And I am certain that Dana Delany would be starring in Body of Proof if she looked like me. (I have some real estate down in the swamps to sell if you believe that, Mr. PapaFreeak.) I may have--what was that again?--"intelligence, health, a supportive family, good income from meaningful work in a prestigious job," but put me in a room with my sister and a group of strangers, it doesn't matter whether they are women or men, and I will be the frump and my sister will be the star of the party. Guaranteed. Trust me, it's happened over and over and over again throughout our lives: in high school, in college, in graduate school (oh, did I mention she has a Master's degree in Neurobiology? She's hardly just a pretty face), once I got the job here, the last time we were in yoga class together.
The one time I can think of that I didn't feel physically eclipsed by her was when we were in New York just the year before our father died: for complicated and mysterious reasons at the time, I was skinnier than I had ever been (seriously, my periods had stopped--I thought maybe I had gone through menopause at age 39), and somebody on the street commented on how hip I looked (or words to that effect) (I was dressed to go to yoga class, go figure). This was a first for me: nobody ever said anything like that to me in the two-and-a-half years I lived in New York when I was in graduate school, age 23 to 26, and I went to yoga class all the time (way back in the days when all the yoga mats were institutional green, can you believe it?). Suffice it to say, I am not that skinny now and haven't been for some time (grief, plus, you know, stuff; even Atkins hasn't taken me down to the weight I was then). I doubt very much I would get even a second look from that same person.
I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. I have never dressed to attract the attention of random strangers, not when I was 25, not now. It should not make a bit of difference how many strangers mistake me for my sister's mother, no matter what I'm wearing, no matter what color my hair is. If I really wanted to look like her, I should have had different parents. Oh, wait. This isn't some random beautiful stranger we're talking about (like, say, Dana Delany or Mary-Louise Parker--who looks just like my sister, don't you think? And Parker is six months older than me!) This is the person who looks most like me in the whole world, but somehow, I don't look like her. Or not her sister anyway. Maybe an aged aunt.
One day, I will transcend all of this. I won't care any more what people think about how I look, I won't care whether they think I'm 48 or 103. But when my mother's mother Rachel died in 1981 at age 69, she was still insisting that she was "39 and a few months" (my mother, her daughter, was 43 at the time; I was 16, the same age my son is now). It runs in the family, I guess, refusing to grow old.
My sister, age 45, is expecting her first baby within the next week or two, just in time for her 46th birthday. And, yes, I'm jealous (I told you you'd enjoy this one, PapaFreeak). Partly because a small part of me still wishes that my husband and I had had at least one more child together, but mainly because I know that, even at 46, my sister will never experience what I did when my son was 2 and I was the ripe old age of 33: namely, being mistaken for my own child's grandmother one day as we were playing in the park. One minute, I was there, pushing my son on the baby swings, happy as a clam; the next, I had a woman apologizing to me, once she'd seen my face, "Oh, you just went gray early, didn't you?"
Well, duh, yes! Did I really look old enough to be a grandmother when I was 33? Mind you, it is not out of the question. If I had had my first child at 16, my 17-year-old daughter might have had a 2-year-old when I was 33, but it is pretty unlikely for someone who looks like me in our neighborhood (you know, 'cause we're so privileged and all). (Sorry, PapaFreeak is a really, really good demon. I told you he hit all my buttons.) In any case, this stranger mistook me, at age 33, for somebody, well, the age I am now, although in our neighborhood I am still pretty young to be a grandmother at age 48; not many of our graduate students have children in their first couple of years of study, which means families don't tend to get started until more around, well, age 30 or 31, and even that is a bit young. (I had only been in my job two years when my son was born, and most of my colleagues were shocked that I didn't wait at least until I had been renewed. Many of my colleagues have waited until after getting tenure to start their families. But I digress.)
It was odd to be mistaken for someone old enough to be the grandmother of a 2-year-old when I was 33. What do you think the odds are now that someone will mistake me for my sister's son's grandmother when we go down to visit her and her family (it's complicated, she has stepsons-to-be) this summer? Me, I wouldn't bet against it if you didn't want to lose your wager. It's going to happen, I just know it is. Why am I so certain? Because it already did happen the last time my sister and I were together four years ago and the teacher of the yoga class we went to together asked if I were my sister's mother. Yes, we were already there on our mats in our yoga clothes. Yes, she looked straight at both of us. No, she had never met my sister or me before, she was simply judging by the way we looked. And to her eyes, I looked like my sister's mother.
Fine, I have--how did PapaFreeak put it?--"intelligence, health, a supportive family, good income from meaningful work in a prestigious job," why in the hell should it matter to me whether some stranger in a yoga class assumes that my sister is my daughter? Because, of course, this is hardly the first time in our lives that people have mistaken our ages. I have looked, shall we say, middle-aged pretty much ever since I was 20. My sister still looks, oh, 25, give or take a year or two, despite being according to her birth year well into middle age. Certainly, I looked middle-aged enough four years ago--i.e. two years younger than she is now--to be mistaken for the mother of a 42-year-old (the age she was then). Our mother, just to put things in perspective, will be 75 this year. I was born when she was 26. And now I look old enough to be she, at least when I am standing (or sitting on a yoga mat) next to my sister.
You don't believe me? Okay, here we both are, in photos taken within the past month or so. That's me on the top, sitting at my laptop. That's her on the bottom, in a photo taken by her main squeeze.
 |
| Me at my keyboard, age 48 |
 |
| My beautiful sister, age 45 |
I know, I know, I am supposed to be above all this, living the life of the mind as I do. Yeah, right. And women in the public sphere are never judged on how they look. And I am certain that Dana Delany would be starring in Body of Proof if she looked like me. (I have some real estate down in the swamps to sell if you believe that, Mr. PapaFreeak.) I may have--what was that again?--"intelligence, health, a supportive family, good income from meaningful work in a prestigious job," but put me in a room with my sister and a group of strangers, it doesn't matter whether they are women or men, and I will be the frump and my sister will be the star of the party. Guaranteed. Trust me, it's happened over and over and over again throughout our lives: in high school, in college, in graduate school (oh, did I mention she has a Master's degree in Neurobiology? She's hardly just a pretty face), once I got the job here, the last time we were in yoga class together.
The one time I can think of that I didn't feel physically eclipsed by her was when we were in New York just the year before our father died: for complicated and mysterious reasons at the time, I was skinnier than I had ever been (seriously, my periods had stopped--I thought maybe I had gone through menopause at age 39), and somebody on the street commented on how hip I looked (or words to that effect) (I was dressed to go to yoga class, go figure). This was a first for me: nobody ever said anything like that to me in the two-and-a-half years I lived in New York when I was in graduate school, age 23 to 26, and I went to yoga class all the time (way back in the days when all the yoga mats were institutional green, can you believe it?). Suffice it to say, I am not that skinny now and haven't been for some time (grief, plus, you know, stuff; even Atkins hasn't taken me down to the weight I was then). I doubt very much I would get even a second look from that same person.
I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. I have never dressed to attract the attention of random strangers, not when I was 25, not now. It should not make a bit of difference how many strangers mistake me for my sister's mother, no matter what I'm wearing, no matter what color my hair is. If I really wanted to look like her, I should have had different parents. Oh, wait. This isn't some random beautiful stranger we're talking about (like, say, Dana Delany or Mary-Louise Parker--who looks just like my sister, don't you think? And Parker is six months older than me!) This is the person who looks most like me in the whole world, but somehow, I don't look like her. Or not her sister anyway. Maybe an aged aunt.
One day, I will transcend all of this. I won't care any more what people think about how I look, I won't care whether they think I'm 48 or 103. But when my mother's mother Rachel died in 1981 at age 69, she was still insisting that she was "39 and a few months" (my mother, her daughter, was 43 at the time; I was 16, the same age my son is now). It runs in the family, I guess, refusing to grow old.
A Demon of My Very Own
I've been thinking about it, and I'm not sure my husband and son were entirely right in suggesting that my reader PapaFreeak is simply a common or garden-variety troll. Consider the comments that he has left me over the past several months.
First, there was one on my thoughts about how I feel uncomfortable at times saying "Merry Christmas":
Then there is his next contribution to my anxieties, when I was trying to make sense of why it seems so difficult for either side of my family to get together more than once in a blue moon:
Then there was yesterday's comment on my musings about writing for a more public audience:
It's uncanny. It's as if he is right in there with me, knowing exactly what to say to drive me to despair. So, of course, I've looked him up, wondering who he possibly could be, who knows me so well. And you know what? He's only had this blogger identity since December 2012, i.e. since he left the first comment for me. And it's only been viewed, get this, 12 times--all of them, I rather suspect, me, wondering whether he had ever written anything that I might read so as to get a better idea of who he is. But--and this is important--he only exists here, in my blog comments! Which means, you guessed it, he isn't real, he's only a voice in my head.
I don't need a troll-hunter. I need an exorcist.
First, there was one on my thoughts about how I feel uncomfortable at times saying "Merry Christmas":
Do you really believe that you are prevented from wishing people Merry Christmas? Really?Here, he immediately sets out to make me feel like my anxieties over offending others are a) silly or b) clear evidence that I would wish others damned to hell. Such insinuations are devilishly difficult to answer, because if I choose Option A, I am clearly thinking too much of myself in worrying about how others are going to respond to my greeting, while if I choose Option B, I fall immediately into the (fictional) camp of "Christians who really want to see everyone else damned." Damned if I do, damned if I don't. When I answered him there that, yes, I do feel uncomfortable greeting people with "Merry Christmas" when I don't know whether they think of themselves as Christian, he replied (quoting me):
How about one of these options:
Option A:-Wish people Merry Christmas. If they respond positively (as 99% of them likely will) then all is well. If they respond negatively, then you can still feel that you acted according to your own conscience. It isn't exactly a martyr's torment and death to do so.
-Option B:- Why not take it one step farther? Why not say, to everyone you meet, "Merry Christmas! And if you celebrate some other holiday, I *don't* wish you any happiness at all. If you don't celebrate Christmas, then you must not be a Christian, and therefore my God will condemn you to roast in Hell for all eternity! Given these realities, why should I wish you any happiness at all?"
Option A seems to me the saner one.
"But if saying 'Merry Christmas' were as neutral as you suggest, why can't we say it publically in our shops and schools and streets anymore?"Again, it's all in my head (which, as I answered him, was precisely my point: I feel uncomfortable), which is silly, because there is no law against making such greetings. This is clever because, indeed, we have no laws (at the moment) that prevent us from saying "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Hanukkah" or "Allahu Akbar" (although there are the regular kerfuffles about where we can put up nativity scenes and Christmas trees)--but this does not mean that some of us do not find it difficult to say these things when we are in public. But, again, the point here is to make sure that I begin doubting myself for having the feelings that I do. Also note how he says I "blame others" for my mild discomfort, utterly ignoring the fact that in my original post, all of my "blaming" came in the quotation of what I in my humbuggery wanted to say, but didn't. Classic debating tactics, to which I, in my innocence, quickly succumbed.
You *can.* I am not aware of a single law on the books in any legislative district that outlaws wishing others "Merry Christmas!" as loudly and as publicly as you like. Nor is there any kind of trend or major news story about persons being harmed for so doing. Stating that you *cannot* wish friends, colleagues, and neighbors a Merry Christmas is both incorrect and rather silly. You are inventing a form of oppression that exists entirely in your head, and then attempting to project it outward onto "our secularized society."
News flash: we are not secular*ized* -- a construction that suggests we have changed over time and become secular, when we once were not. This nation was founded on two principles (among others) which you seem to want to ignore: separation of Church and State, and the right to Free Speech. You may deplore the former, but it is not new. You seem unwilling to exercise the latter, but then blame others for your mild discomfort around this fact.
Then there is his next contribution to my anxieties, when I was trying to make sense of why it seems so difficult for either side of my family to get together more than once in a blue moon:
The University of Chicago apparently is one of the top paid universities in the country. Your husband also works full time at a major cultural institution. You have one kid. Why not travel a little -- your poverty surely cannot be that severe.Once again, he deftly targets my anxiety (that I don't make enough effort to spend time with my family) by making sure that I know it is my fault, when the whole point of my post was to suggest that, in fact, it was nobody's fault, just the way things seem to be. This is not the work of a troll; it is simply too clever.
Then there was yesterday's comment on my musings about writing for a more public audience:
I've noticed you, but I find about 75% of what you post to be odious. This is why I return: I don't understand why someone with your advantages -- intelligence, health, a supportive family, good income from meaningful work in a prestigious job -- is so astoundingly petty, envious, and self-pitying. I think you fascinate me because you provide access to a mentality that is genuinely foreign to me.This one was his best one yet, hitting absolutely all of my buttons. I am going to be hugging his description of me to my chest for days, it is so apt. "Petty, envious, and self-pitying"--I hear this is my head all the time!!!! It's as if he lives there, right inside of me, whispering to me what a sniveling, ungrateful wretch I am for not being able to see how good I have it. How did he know that I have had such struggles with envy, when all the time I thought that my deadliest sin was pride? How did he know how I wish that I could get out of my head and do something more meaningful with my life than just sitting around thinking about prayer, as opposed to saving the world or, at the very least, discovering a cure for cancer like some of my friends? How did he know that I am sick to death of having such anxieties surrounding my writing and research and wish that I could just stick it out there, oblivious to what others think?
It's uncanny. It's as if he is right in there with me, knowing exactly what to say to drive me to despair. So, of course, I've looked him up, wondering who he possibly could be, who knows me so well. And you know what? He's only had this blogger identity since December 2012, i.e. since he left the first comment for me. And it's only been viewed, get this, 12 times--all of them, I rather suspect, me, wondering whether he had ever written anything that I might read so as to get a better idea of who he is. But--and this is important--he only exists here, in my blog comments! Which means, you guessed it, he isn't real, he's only a voice in my head.
I don't need a troll-hunter. I need an exorcist.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
"Don't Feed the Trolls!"
It's been hours and hours and hours since I posted the first of my responses to PapaFreeak--and he hasn't written me back!!!! I told my husband and son about the things that he said about how much he enjoyed reading my blog (he only hates 75% of what I post!), and they immediately said, "No, no, no! It's a troll! Don't feed the trolls!" But PapaFreeak is MY FRIEND!!!! HE LIKES 25% OF WHAT I POST!!!! That's, like, one out of every four posts! I'm not even sure I like that many of my posts. How could he possibly be a troll?!!!!
I feel sad.
I feel sad.
MetaConfession
I blame Augustine. If it wasn't for his writing his Confessions way back when, none of us (including me and Elizabeth Gilbert) would ever have had the idea that it was a worthwhile, perhaps even healing thing to confess our sins publicly before our fellow human beings and God.
I can just hear Augustine's original readers: "Who does he think he is, this professor of rhetoric, complaining about how he feels guilty for stealing a couple of pears? It's embarrassing, doesn't he realize how privileged he is, what with his education and prestigious career? And all those details about doubting himself and his inability to stay chaste! You'd think he'd have better things to do than to whine about why it took him so long to find God. And blaming the Manichees for misleading him, that was just uncalled for."
It couldn't have been easy reading then, just as for many it still isn't now, and I'm not talking about having to read through all ten books for an undergraduate course in Western Civilization. "Ah, but," you'll say, "Augustine had a philosophical point to make; you and Elizabeth Gilbert are just pampered white women who don't know how good they have it." Um. Right. And Augustine was a member of one of the most privileged classes of humanity ever to walk the face of God's green earth, an upper-class Roman citizen in the heyday (sort of, the parallels with our circumstances today are at times, shall we say, unsettling) of the Empire, highly educated and blessed with a glittering career. As Wikipedia puts it: "At the age of thirty, he had won the most visible academic position in the Latin world, at a time when such posts gave ready access to political careers"--not bad for someone from Thagaste. But then he went and embarrassed himself by whining about pears.
No, I don't think that anything that I've written thus far on my blog has come close to the insights that Augustine had about our human condition. Perhaps then readers like PapaFreeak would be a little more willing to forgive me for not living up to their image of what a professor at a prestigious university should be. But it is nevertheless unclear to me why it should be such a sin to confess that I don't live up to that image, not even in my own mind, much less God's.* It seems to me to smack rather of pride to pretend to a certainty about the value of my work, particularly my writing, or to refuse to allow others (including my students) to see the work that I have had to do in order to get where I am, including the work on my self as a human being. Ah, that we all could live up to the roles that we play on this stage! Oh, that we should never let our masks slip so that others might see the flawed human being behind the smile!
If removing that mask means others see me at times as (in PapaFreeak's words) "petty, envious, and self-pitying," so be it. I rather suspect his contemporaries said much the same thing of that champion whiner King David when he first published the Psalms.
*Does God have a mind? I don't think so, but then how does He think? See how quickly confession leads to theology!
I can just hear Augustine's original readers: "Who does he think he is, this professor of rhetoric, complaining about how he feels guilty for stealing a couple of pears? It's embarrassing, doesn't he realize how privileged he is, what with his education and prestigious career? And all those details about doubting himself and his inability to stay chaste! You'd think he'd have better things to do than to whine about why it took him so long to find God. And blaming the Manichees for misleading him, that was just uncalled for."
It couldn't have been easy reading then, just as for many it still isn't now, and I'm not talking about having to read through all ten books for an undergraduate course in Western Civilization. "Ah, but," you'll say, "Augustine had a philosophical point to make; you and Elizabeth Gilbert are just pampered white women who don't know how good they have it." Um. Right. And Augustine was a member of one of the most privileged classes of humanity ever to walk the face of God's green earth, an upper-class Roman citizen in the heyday (sort of, the parallels with our circumstances today are at times, shall we say, unsettling) of the Empire, highly educated and blessed with a glittering career. As Wikipedia puts it: "At the age of thirty, he had won the most visible academic position in the Latin world, at a time when such posts gave ready access to political careers"--not bad for someone from Thagaste. But then he went and embarrassed himself by whining about pears.
No, I don't think that anything that I've written thus far on my blog has come close to the insights that Augustine had about our human condition. Perhaps then readers like PapaFreeak would be a little more willing to forgive me for not living up to their image of what a professor at a prestigious university should be. But it is nevertheless unclear to me why it should be such a sin to confess that I don't live up to that image, not even in my own mind, much less God's.* It seems to me to smack rather of pride to pretend to a certainty about the value of my work, particularly my writing, or to refuse to allow others (including my students) to see the work that I have had to do in order to get where I am, including the work on my self as a human being. Ah, that we all could live up to the roles that we play on this stage! Oh, that we should never let our masks slip so that others might see the flawed human being behind the smile!
If removing that mask means others see me at times as (in PapaFreeak's words) "petty, envious, and self-pitying," so be it. I rather suspect his contemporaries said much the same thing of that champion whiner King David when he first published the Psalms.
O Lord, rebuke me not in thy indignation,
nor chastise me in thy wrath.
Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am weak.
Heal me, O Lord, for my bones are troubled
and my soul is troubled exceedingly.
But thou, O Lord, how long?
Turn to me, O Lord, and deliver my soul.
O save me for thy mercy's sake,
for there is no one in death that is mindful of thee,
and who shall confess to thee in hell?
I have laboured in my groanings.
Every night I will wash my bed;
I will water my couch with my tears.
My eye is troubled through indignation.
I have grown old amongst all my enemies.
Depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity,
for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.
The Lord hath heard my supplication.
The Lord hath received my prayer.
Let all my enemies be ashamed and be very much troubled.
Let them be turned back and be ashamed very speedily.
--Psalm 6 (Douay-Rheims translation)
*Does God have a mind? I don't think so, but then how does He think? See how quickly confession leads to theology!
"No complaints, please. We're privileged!"
I'm sorry, this is so great, I just have to share it with you. In the comments for my last post, PapaFreeak has just paid me an enormous compliment. He reads my blog, get this, even though, he says, "I find about 75% of what you post to be odious." ODIOUS!!!! Isn't that the best thing you've ever heard?! But wait, there's more: "This [he explains] is why I return: I don't understand why someone with your advantages--intelligence, health, a supportive family, good income from meaningful work in a prestigious job--is so astoundingly petty, envious, and self-pitying. I think you fascinate me because you provide access to a mentality that is genuinely foreign to me." Gosh, what can I say? A FAN!!!! This is what Elizabeth Gilbert must feel like all the time!
But PapaFreeak only finds "about 75%" of what I post to be "odious". Which makes me wonder: what 25% could he possibly like?
Could it be that, having the "prestigious job" that I do, I never complain about my actual work, not my teaching or my students or their writing or having to grade their papers? Not that I have anything to complain about there: I have fabulous students who do nothing but their absolute best work for me (no, I am not being facetious; I HAVE FABULOUS STUDENTS WHO DO NOTHING BUT THEIR ABSOLUTE BEST WORK FOR ME). But, no, I don't write very much about what goes on in my classrooms (that's for my students and me), so it couldn't be that.
Could it be that, having hit a fairly tough bout of writer's block three and a half years ago, I spent the past two years (after a fairly stressful year and half taking care of various life issues, which, again, I haven't written about, except very indirectly) working purposefully and successfully at learning new ways to think about my writing, such that in the past two years I have not only managed to learn how to deal with the anxieties attendant upon writing, but drafted both a full translation of a nearly 6000-line poem and drafted nearly 75,000 words of my next book? No, that couldn't be it, could it? 'Cause, you know, I haven't whined about not being able to write in years, and I don't think he was one of my readers before that.
Could it be that when I first started this blog nearly five years ago, I had so little clue about how to get my head straight in a fencing bout that many of my initial posts that summer were about how frustrating it was as a fencer not to be able to do the things I thought that I should (darn those "shoulds"), but that since then, I have not only learned how to compete, but made top 8 in my age group now five times in a row at a national event? No, that couldn't be it, either, 'cause why would anyone want to read about progress in learning how to compete?
Could it be that, after having struggled with issues over my body image and weight more or less since I could walk (okay, since I was eight), I have spent the past several years, again, working purposefully to adjust both my body image and my diet, such that I have not even weighed myself now for, well, gee, I can't remember the last time I weighed, I threw the scales out so long ago? Nor do I worry anymore about what to eat, now that I have learned how to follow the Atkins diet. Okay, I'll give, I do still have some issues over how beautiful I am (or wish I were), but PapaFreeak didn't say he thought I was pretty in listing my attributes, so it couldn't be that.
Could it be that, again, after having struggled for years with feelings of failure because I hadn't made the progress in my career that I thought I should (that word again!) based on the kinds of attention and outside offers colleagues in my department were getting, I have spent the past several years working purposefully through my feelings of envy, including just last spring reading several highly recommended books on this deadliest of sins, specifically because I was aware how debilitating they have been to my sense of self and happiness, not to mention my ability to be a good colleague? No, it definitely isn't that, because one of the things PapaFreeak is clear about is how much he hates how envious I am. Clearly, I still need to do some more work on this one. (They don't call them "deadly sins" for nothing, you know.)
Could it be that I write about things like how much I am enjoying learning to play the fiddle this year, in the process overcoming many of the narratives that I used to have about myself ("no musical talent," "can't play well with others") while having, quite frankly, the most fun I have had in years learning to do almost anything else (and you know me, I love learning new skills)? No, again, it can't be that. What could be pettier than learning to fiddle? It is more or less the metaphor for pettiness, "just fiddling around."
That's it; that's all I can think of. I haven't a clue what PapaFreeak enjoys about my blog. Maybe it's the pictures of my dog.
But PapaFreeak only finds "about 75%" of what I post to be "odious". Which makes me wonder: what 25% could he possibly like?
Could it be that, having the "prestigious job" that I do, I never complain about my actual work, not my teaching or my students or their writing or having to grade their papers? Not that I have anything to complain about there: I have fabulous students who do nothing but their absolute best work for me (no, I am not being facetious; I HAVE FABULOUS STUDENTS WHO DO NOTHING BUT THEIR ABSOLUTE BEST WORK FOR ME). But, no, I don't write very much about what goes on in my classrooms (that's for my students and me), so it couldn't be that.
Could it be that, having hit a fairly tough bout of writer's block three and a half years ago, I spent the past two years (after a fairly stressful year and half taking care of various life issues, which, again, I haven't written about, except very indirectly) working purposefully and successfully at learning new ways to think about my writing, such that in the past two years I have not only managed to learn how to deal with the anxieties attendant upon writing, but drafted both a full translation of a nearly 6000-line poem and drafted nearly 75,000 words of my next book? No, that couldn't be it, could it? 'Cause, you know, I haven't whined about not being able to write in years, and I don't think he was one of my readers before that.
Could it be that when I first started this blog nearly five years ago, I had so little clue about how to get my head straight in a fencing bout that many of my initial posts that summer were about how frustrating it was as a fencer not to be able to do the things I thought that I should (darn those "shoulds"), but that since then, I have not only learned how to compete, but made top 8 in my age group now five times in a row at a national event? No, that couldn't be it, either, 'cause why would anyone want to read about progress in learning how to compete?
Could it be that, after having struggled with issues over my body image and weight more or less since I could walk (okay, since I was eight), I have spent the past several years, again, working purposefully to adjust both my body image and my diet, such that I have not even weighed myself now for, well, gee, I can't remember the last time I weighed, I threw the scales out so long ago? Nor do I worry anymore about what to eat, now that I have learned how to follow the Atkins diet. Okay, I'll give, I do still have some issues over how beautiful I am (or wish I were), but PapaFreeak didn't say he thought I was pretty in listing my attributes, so it couldn't be that.
Could it be that, again, after having struggled for years with feelings of failure because I hadn't made the progress in my career that I thought I should (that word again!) based on the kinds of attention and outside offers colleagues in my department were getting, I have spent the past several years working purposefully through my feelings of envy, including just last spring reading several highly recommended books on this deadliest of sins, specifically because I was aware how debilitating they have been to my sense of self and happiness, not to mention my ability to be a good colleague? No, it definitely isn't that, because one of the things PapaFreeak is clear about is how much he hates how envious I am. Clearly, I still need to do some more work on this one. (They don't call them "deadly sins" for nothing, you know.)
Could it be that I write about things like how much I am enjoying learning to play the fiddle this year, in the process overcoming many of the narratives that I used to have about myself ("no musical talent," "can't play well with others") while having, quite frankly, the most fun I have had in years learning to do almost anything else (and you know me, I love learning new skills)? No, again, it can't be that. What could be pettier than learning to fiddle? It is more or less the metaphor for pettiness, "just fiddling around."
That's it; that's all I can think of. I haven't a clue what PapaFreeak enjoys about my blog. Maybe it's the pictures of my dog.
Media Matters
It's been a rough week out there. The Boston Marathon bombing, the Senate defeat of the President's gun-control bill (okay, it wasn't technically his, but he reacted as if it were), the fertilizer plant explosion in West, TX (a town I didn't even know existed until it showed up in my mother's church's Facebook feed), the on-going trial of Kermit Gosnell for mass-murdering babies--all the subject of lots of commentary from the folks in the media (except, interestingly, the last). I'm in the media (sort of). Shouldn't I have something to say?
Well, maybe, but on what basis? After all, like most of us, the only thing I know about any of these things is what I read in the papers (actually, online, mainly still at NRO, 'cause, you know, there are only so many hours in the day and I am supposed to be working on a book on medieval prayer), so what could I actually add to the conversation except more rampant speculation based on my own personal convictions about what people should and shouldn't be doing in the world? Not that that stops many of the people who make their living in the media, particularly (yes, I'll add to the shaming) David Sirota, but I really prefer writing about things about which I have some actual experience, not just what I've learned from what others have said.
Mind you, that wouldn't leave me much to say in the way of, say, medieval prayer, since what could I know about that except what others have written? On the other hand, this probably explains my preferred methodology of commentary (a.k.a. exegesis): I might not know what people thought or did, but I do know what they wrote, so I can talk about that. Oh, dear, I seem to be writing myself into a corner here. How can I know anything other than what I experience or think? One needs to be able to trust others in order to learn about the world, even Augustine knew that. But how do I know whom to trust?
Ah, yes, perhaps this is closer to the issue. In the media, I don't, not really, not even my virtual buddies over at the NRO (they feel like buddies even though they never answer my emails; I've been reading their columns daily for nearly a year). So, sure, I could leap in agreeing with them on this or that, but to what end? Adding to the chorus so as simply to increase the volume? Possibly, although I am not sure what help that would be, my voice being (relatively) so weak. But nor do I want simply to be trading in indignation, because that doesn't help. I do think occasionally that I should weigh in on some of the debates over education--it's my profession, after all. But then I stall because I simply know so much. Where to start?
I suppose the real issue is whether I am interested in being a pundit. Sometimes I think that I am; certainly, I have colleagues who are. But do I really want to take on that role in addition to teacher? Thus far, I have had only a few brushes with the larger media, and they haven't necessarily gone well. The larger media is a very distorting medium (to make a plural singular--can you do that?), but it is an important, if fickle one. How can I hope to change people's minds about medieval prayer if I don't get up and shout as loud as I possibly can? Round and round. Am I just scared to try to say something louder? That seems odd, as important as I think prayer is. Am I scared of drawing attention to myself? Again, really? Me, who tells all in these pages precisely in the hope of getting attention (a.k.a. readers)?
Perhaps it is that I am not terribly good at being a team player (I am a fencer, after all; I don't do teams) and want to write for myself, not this or that particular audience. But that's silly. No, it's snobbish. No, it's just making excuses for not putting fingers to keyboard and writing. No, 'cause I've been writing. But it is something about audience: I am afraid of not getting one. There, I think we are getting closer now. What if I stuck my neck out, and nobody noticed? None of the folks at the NRO seem to care what I think (okay, two of them, one of whom wrote about me a decade ago; you'd think he'd at least remember my name), and I tend to agree with them. What if I wrote something that made people angry? What if I couldn't, in fact, change their minds?
It's a perilous world out there, our mass media. And not just to life and limb.
Well, maybe, but on what basis? After all, like most of us, the only thing I know about any of these things is what I read in the papers (actually, online, mainly still at NRO, 'cause, you know, there are only so many hours in the day and I am supposed to be working on a book on medieval prayer), so what could I actually add to the conversation except more rampant speculation based on my own personal convictions about what people should and shouldn't be doing in the world? Not that that stops many of the people who make their living in the media, particularly (yes, I'll add to the shaming) David Sirota, but I really prefer writing about things about which I have some actual experience, not just what I've learned from what others have said.
Mind you, that wouldn't leave me much to say in the way of, say, medieval prayer, since what could I know about that except what others have written? On the other hand, this probably explains my preferred methodology of commentary (a.k.a. exegesis): I might not know what people thought or did, but I do know what they wrote, so I can talk about that. Oh, dear, I seem to be writing myself into a corner here. How can I know anything other than what I experience or think? One needs to be able to trust others in order to learn about the world, even Augustine knew that. But how do I know whom to trust?
Ah, yes, perhaps this is closer to the issue. In the media, I don't, not really, not even my virtual buddies over at the NRO (they feel like buddies even though they never answer my emails; I've been reading their columns daily for nearly a year). So, sure, I could leap in agreeing with them on this or that, but to what end? Adding to the chorus so as simply to increase the volume? Possibly, although I am not sure what help that would be, my voice being (relatively) so weak. But nor do I want simply to be trading in indignation, because that doesn't help. I do think occasionally that I should weigh in on some of the debates over education--it's my profession, after all. But then I stall because I simply know so much. Where to start?
I suppose the real issue is whether I am interested in being a pundit. Sometimes I think that I am; certainly, I have colleagues who are. But do I really want to take on that role in addition to teacher? Thus far, I have had only a few brushes with the larger media, and they haven't necessarily gone well. The larger media is a very distorting medium (to make a plural singular--can you do that?), but it is an important, if fickle one. How can I hope to change people's minds about medieval prayer if I don't get up and shout as loud as I possibly can? Round and round. Am I just scared to try to say something louder? That seems odd, as important as I think prayer is. Am I scared of drawing attention to myself? Again, really? Me, who tells all in these pages precisely in the hope of getting attention (a.k.a. readers)?
Perhaps it is that I am not terribly good at being a team player (I am a fencer, after all; I don't do teams) and want to write for myself, not this or that particular audience. But that's silly. No, it's snobbish. No, it's just making excuses for not putting fingers to keyboard and writing. No, 'cause I've been writing. But it is something about audience: I am afraid of not getting one. There, I think we are getting closer now. What if I stuck my neck out, and nobody noticed? None of the folks at the NRO seem to care what I think (okay, two of them, one of whom wrote about me a decade ago; you'd think he'd at least remember my name), and I tend to agree with them. What if I wrote something that made people angry? What if I couldn't, in fact, change their minds?
It's a perilous world out there, our mass media. And not just to life and limb.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Why People Do Evil Things
Hard as it may be to believe, the answer is horribly simple: because they think that they are right.
It does no good to spend any time at all wringing one's hands over the "mystery" or to attempt to understand why they thought that they were right.
Why?
Again, the answer is horribly simple: just because they think that they are right, doesn't mean they are.
Nor does it mean that their victims in any way "deserved" the evil inflicted upon them, whatever reasons those who thought they were right might give for the evil that they have done.
Evil is a failure of the will to distinguish good from evil; thus evil always justifies itself to itself.
The only answer to evil is judgment, but the only way to judge is to know the difference between evil and good. The only thing "beyond" good and evil is evil.
It does no good to spend any time at all wringing one's hands over the "mystery" or to attempt to understand why they thought that they were right.
Why?
Again, the answer is horribly simple: just because they think that they are right, doesn't mean they are.
Nor does it mean that their victims in any way "deserved" the evil inflicted upon them, whatever reasons those who thought they were right might give for the evil that they have done.
Evil is a failure of the will to distinguish good from evil; thus evil always justifies itself to itself.
The only answer to evil is judgment, but the only way to judge is to know the difference between evil and good. The only thing "beyond" good and evil is evil.
Woe to those who call evil good and good evil,
who put darkness for light and light for darkness,
who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter!
Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes,
and shrewd in their own sight!
--Isaiah 5:20-21 (RSV)
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