Teaching for me isn't necessarily a 'bliss'. I see myself, in my adjunct role, as more of a mercenary. I have the knowledge and ability to communicate and will do that for hire. It doesn't pay much, but it does add nicely to my embarrassing salary. This semester i'm teaching Introduction to Sociology, which is the basics, as you can imagine. History of, concepts, institutions, and research methods. Most of this I can do in my sleep but i try to keep it interesting and get people excited about it as I was when I had intro- enough to become a major and go on to grad school for it. Mostly the happy feelings come from this time of year, though. A wheel has no beginning or end, but can have an entrance point, much like the start of school.
I think of Dead Poets Society, one of my favorite movies (hey, i'm a depressive) and remember how the cinematography of New England autumn ignited a nostalgic affection for those beginnings, and helped frame the coming years of high school and college for possibilities. This year, i'll be organized, use my planner, etc. I'll take lofty classes with thick literature books and find a community to belong to. This is my year! - every year, until the quick quarter turn dumps me into winter malaise. I, along with most folks on the planet, have "seasonal affective disorder" and this is a wonderful series of weeks until the smell of apple butter is bittersweet and days are shorter.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Listening for Bliss
You can't force life to happen- it forces you to react. I'm not trying to be deep or issue Dharma (or Greg) but to reflect a bit on the wise way I've lived, which i had mistaken for waste. I drifted through eras like Forrest Gump and I feel, as we all do, that mine has been the strangest adventure. But, I never planned on getting married- i wasn't one of those girls who planned out her wedding in pink ink on notebook paper. I really never thought i'd have a daughter, and I kinda just jumped from one lilly-pad to the other for pragmatic reasons, not really considering the long view. As a result, I can regret not constructing my life for more or loftier opportunities, but I didn't make many illusions. As deflated as I can become by failed expectations, I didn't set myself up for a joke- rather, I let life happen and am pretty happy for that. I made tons and tons of mistakes but owned up to them, learned from them and grew out of them. I took steps when i felt the nudge of being ready instead of forcing someone else's rules on me, and it looks like carefully crafted evolution.
Sometimes I'll really want something, and feel the anxiety of declaring how much I want it as if i think being more vocal or wishing really hard will make it so, and those are usually the times I don't get it. Recently there was a sweet job opportunity for more money (but possibly more stress and problems) and i fretted and wished and muttered acts of contrition in order for the gods to gimme the job. Alas, it wasn't meant to be and I had to deal with that, eventhough rejection is one of the worst things I experience. I experience it way too often because I take way too many risks and gamble. Funny that you'd never find me gambling money and i loathe betting, but I have little neurotic and mischievious games I play that really resemble it. Anyway, I tried to command the forces of nature, again, and found the cliche but oft' unheeded line best sung by Love n Rockets: you cannot go against nature, because when you do; to go against nature is part of nature too. So bloody stop and smell the roses, be grateful, be curious, listen, love, and learn.
Why is this so hard? Because we're afraid, I think, and distracted. When music is a commodity, we're lost souls.
But there's the sun...
But there's the sun...
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
What's all this then?
I admit that my life is good right now and that gives me the immense privilege of watching others and learning and lending myself without a deficit. The great thing about learning is that the lessons don't have to be missing pieces - they can be just new and enriching reinforcements to our own knowledge- emotional, intellectual, or otherwise.
Last Sunday I took the tot and headed off to the UU in Charleston for a program on eating well and local. Much different than the homilies of my childhood, this church shares seemingly secular topics and connects them with our spiritual, pan-religious paths. It was enlightening, but not so much as what happened afterward. I was lucky enough to share the experience with a great friend Tulip (not her name- aliases will have flower names). Tulip and I connect on a weird familiar level that I hold up to ancient scattered tribes. But anyway, she was hurting and wounded by the weapons of dishonesty and betrayal. Not broken, but in need of repair. After the service we decided to go out for a bite at a place I like to visit in the big city.
Sophia was bringing drama of her own, and I didn't realize until a day later that it might have been because she was ill. She's at the point where she's teething, she needs naps desperately or is ballistic, and is also in a daycare crawling with germs. I was embarrassed because she wouldn't relax and for some reason it was triggering me into a panic to have a child be so inconsolable in public- not sure why. But Tulip was very kind and patient and even though burdened with her world under attack, she helped me remain calm and was much more maternal than I. But this wasn't the lesson. She greeted some folks at the next table and gave the impression that it was a friend she'd known casually and was being polite. Later I learned that the folks she hailed were involved the mess that was hurting her- one directly involved. Now, I'm pretty much an outsider to all of this- I am Tulip's friend and have her back, but I cannot judge anyone else, just the behaviors I am made privvy to. But given the gravity of the situation, I am in complete awe of Tulip's class and compassion.
The situation is a complete mess; a lot of people got hurt, and we are all fallible creatures who deserve redemption. But when you have a dagger in your back, touching your heart, you are not likely to remember your connection to humanity, and she did. I'm just baffled by that as a person who is led too often by impulse and an open mouth, ready to fire venom at the smallest of injuries. It was an incredible moment to absorb and learn from, when I thought I was there to just learn at church and comfort a friend with wit and sympathy. I normally consider nature to be my classroom, and this surprised me. I need to be more open to growth and practice the grace I witnessed.
Well done, Tulip!
Now someone remind me that I should not have had eggs on very hot days. That Blue Grass Huevo made me ill.
Last Sunday I took the tot and headed off to the UU in Charleston for a program on eating well and local. Much different than the homilies of my childhood, this church shares seemingly secular topics and connects them with our spiritual, pan-religious paths. It was enlightening, but not so much as what happened afterward. I was lucky enough to share the experience with a great friend Tulip (not her name- aliases will have flower names). Tulip and I connect on a weird familiar level that I hold up to ancient scattered tribes. But anyway, she was hurting and wounded by the weapons of dishonesty and betrayal. Not broken, but in need of repair. After the service we decided to go out for a bite at a place I like to visit in the big city.
Sophia was bringing drama of her own, and I didn't realize until a day later that it might have been because she was ill. She's at the point where she's teething, she needs naps desperately or is ballistic, and is also in a daycare crawling with germs. I was embarrassed because she wouldn't relax and for some reason it was triggering me into a panic to have a child be so inconsolable in public- not sure why. But Tulip was very kind and patient and even though burdened with her world under attack, she helped me remain calm and was much more maternal than I. But this wasn't the lesson. She greeted some folks at the next table and gave the impression that it was a friend she'd known casually and was being polite. Later I learned that the folks she hailed were involved the mess that was hurting her- one directly involved. Now, I'm pretty much an outsider to all of this- I am Tulip's friend and have her back, but I cannot judge anyone else, just the behaviors I am made privvy to. But given the gravity of the situation, I am in complete awe of Tulip's class and compassion.
The situation is a complete mess; a lot of people got hurt, and we are all fallible creatures who deserve redemption. But when you have a dagger in your back, touching your heart, you are not likely to remember your connection to humanity, and she did. I'm just baffled by that as a person who is led too often by impulse and an open mouth, ready to fire venom at the smallest of injuries. It was an incredible moment to absorb and learn from, when I thought I was there to just learn at church and comfort a friend with wit and sympathy. I normally consider nature to be my classroom, and this surprised me. I need to be more open to growth and practice the grace I witnessed.
Well done, Tulip!
Now someone remind me that I should not have had eggs on very hot days. That Blue Grass Huevo made me ill.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Your turn, O mighty Reader
Salvete Lectori!
This blog is different from the Live Journal that i've kept for bloody ever because it contains more in-depth and hopefully more carefully constructed thoughts about life experiences, attitudes, and self-analysis. I have noticed that folks do read but not comment for whatever reason. There isn't an obligation, though it is suggested with the 'comment option' and too often we use volume of comments as a statement of quality and readership.
I thought I'd turn the mic over to you though- the reader, the traveler, the voyeur. Completely stealing the idea from Heidi at Daisybones:
1) If you are already actually on this website, AWESOME, and if you are reading this is in a feedreader, click on this entry's title and come on over. We'll wait, because you're cool.
2) Answer the following three questions in the comments section:
a) What is your website url?
b) Where are you from in real life?
c) What Draws you here?
d) What is something I should see?
I'll leave you with five things that make me happy:
This blog is different from the Live Journal that i've kept for bloody ever because it contains more in-depth and hopefully more carefully constructed thoughts about life experiences, attitudes, and self-analysis. I have noticed that folks do read but not comment for whatever reason. There isn't an obligation, though it is suggested with the 'comment option' and too often we use volume of comments as a statement of quality and readership.
I thought I'd turn the mic over to you though- the reader, the traveler, the voyeur. Completely stealing the idea from Heidi at Daisybones:
1) If you are already actually on this website, AWESOME, and if you are reading this is in a feedreader, click on this entry's title and come on over. We'll wait, because you're cool.
2) Answer the following three questions in the comments section:
a) What is your website url?
b) Where are you from in real life?
c) What Draws you here?
d) What is something I should see?
I'll leave you with five things that make me happy:
- sitting on the couch reading with Josh and a blissfully sleeping cub
- fresh dill from the garden
- sunshine on my forehead
- singing perfect harmonies with songs, adding complexity
- making Sophia laugh
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Getting it
I don't know a blessed thing about programming languages. When I was in high school, 1990-92, computer skills were still segregated into vocational/technical education and devalued by those of us who were so goddamned intellectual that we made our brains ache. I did everything I felt I was supposed to do to take the world by storm as a writer- i wrote, i was in a band, i took Latin and simply adored poetry. I celebrated my depression and exploited the fact that i liked darker-themed music and tones. Computers were cute and all, but the Humanities- *swoon, flail*. And now i'm a secretary waving my stupid social science degrees around to the unimpressed masses. But, I kick ass at Jeopardy with my very attractive husband.
But both deal in logic and the application of layers for interpretation. If this, then this, but not if that or that, with the conditions of a,b, and c. Socrates and the soft-spoken guy hunched over the keyboard both go through mazes or set them down for others to discover something. The end product is the establishment of a destination.
Why am I rambling? Hell, I don't know. When we think of ourselves in snapshots, I think of two things- either a girl inside of some dwelling (school, house, etc) looking outside at a gorgeous day with people frolicking; or, I think of myself as the seeker- a woman in a cloak with a staff and lantern, looking for something. Both are solitary creatures, to be sure, and these may be faces of my true self I feel so alienated from as I try so desperately to join a clan. Just yesterday I posed the question of why I feel so excluded from everything, and someone had courage to, with tact, tell me what I've suspected all along- i'm hideously insecure and that's unappealing. In my attempts to make friends or find love, I've compromised myself to the point of losing identity in exchange for acceptance. I'm fluent in so many things to impress others that I don't really know what I sincerely enjoy and what I'm adopting as part of the persona I wish to create. For all of my appreciation for authenticity, I seem to lack it, and can't deny that anymore if I want to be someone worthy of Sophia's respect and genuine friendship from people I admire. (win friends and influence people, cha cha)
So I went back and did something I never do- i read my own blog, particularly this entry. And I noticed a pattern emerging- I've trained myself to hush genuine interests out of past rejection, hurt, or conspicuous participation. I've never been the cool girl but I've always wanted approval from everyone. Bloody everyone. Maura, friend to all. But it doesn't work that way- we are guided to people because of interests and who we are, who they are, and not because they're harmless and benign. It's like trying to become water to appease all who love their wine and soda- how can that make sense.
I see myself as computer language- like that song? That song would be unaccepted by group A and thus brand you unattractive to group A, should they ever be taking applications for membership. So, I'll not like the song, and maybe mock the song- hey, look how cool I am, group A! Group A sees someone waving, flailing, and nervously trying to be like them. Group A goes off to a new, undisclosed location.
This blog is called Follow My Bliss and I don't have much inkling of what my bliss is. I have images- snapshots, all for show and how great life is with magical adjustments. Living out loud but not deliberately.
Christ, I'm 35 and still trapped in the legacy of high school. I need a retreat and exercises to remember who I am and see if I can ever be happy with that. It drives me bloody insane to be by myself for extended periods and I never follow through with projects and ideas on my own steam- rather, am moved by others. A pisces pushed by the currents. I cannot swim, and it seems that's ironic. How clever. How neurotic.
But both deal in logic and the application of layers for interpretation. If this, then this, but not if that or that, with the conditions of a,b, and c. Socrates and the soft-spoken guy hunched over the keyboard both go through mazes or set them down for others to discover something. The end product is the establishment of a destination.
Why am I rambling? Hell, I don't know. When we think of ourselves in snapshots, I think of two things- either a girl inside of some dwelling (school, house, etc) looking outside at a gorgeous day with people frolicking; or, I think of myself as the seeker- a woman in a cloak with a staff and lantern, looking for something. Both are solitary creatures, to be sure, and these may be faces of my true self I feel so alienated from as I try so desperately to join a clan. Just yesterday I posed the question of why I feel so excluded from everything, and someone had courage to, with tact, tell me what I've suspected all along- i'm hideously insecure and that's unappealing. In my attempts to make friends or find love, I've compromised myself to the point of losing identity in exchange for acceptance. I'm fluent in so many things to impress others that I don't really know what I sincerely enjoy and what I'm adopting as part of the persona I wish to create. For all of my appreciation for authenticity, I seem to lack it, and can't deny that anymore if I want to be someone worthy of Sophia's respect and genuine friendship from people I admire. (win friends and influence people, cha cha)
So I went back and did something I never do- i read my own blog, particularly this entry. And I noticed a pattern emerging- I've trained myself to hush genuine interests out of past rejection, hurt, or conspicuous participation. I've never been the cool girl but I've always wanted approval from everyone. Bloody everyone. Maura, friend to all. But it doesn't work that way- we are guided to people because of interests and who we are, who they are, and not because they're harmless and benign. It's like trying to become water to appease all who love their wine and soda- how can that make sense.
I see myself as computer language- like that song? That song would be unaccepted by group A and thus brand you unattractive to group A, should they ever be taking applications for membership. So, I'll not like the song, and maybe mock the song- hey, look how cool I am, group A! Group A sees someone waving, flailing, and nervously trying to be like them. Group A goes off to a new, undisclosed location.
This blog is called Follow My Bliss and I don't have much inkling of what my bliss is. I have images- snapshots, all for show and how great life is with magical adjustments. Living out loud but not deliberately.
Christ, I'm 35 and still trapped in the legacy of high school. I need a retreat and exercises to remember who I am and see if I can ever be happy with that. It drives me bloody insane to be by myself for extended periods and I never follow through with projects and ideas on my own steam- rather, am moved by others. A pisces pushed by the currents. I cannot swim, and it seems that's ironic. How clever. How neurotic.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Me, otherness, humor and a pussy.
..it's not a bad word, guys.
I found out Mollie Sugden died yesterday and two thoughts came to me: first, I didn't know she was still alive, and second, that is probably more important to me personally than Michael Jackson. Now, that might come off as a whiff of pretentiousness, but it's honest and I don't belittle the impact of MJ on people's personal lives. Everyone has their own narrative, and Mrs. Slocombe had a place in mine.
The reason I thought she was already deceased is because Wendy Richards died rather young in comparison (age 66) and I just assumed the graying Mrs. Slocombe had passed before. I think of them in terms of their character on "Are You Being Served" because as an American kid, I didn't know much more about their celebrity or personal lives (not that that matters) unless it came through their work as actors. I can remember being as young as 11, waking up on Saturday morning, grabbing Rice crispies and watching the britcoms on PBS. For some reason, the image of me straddling the floor furnace and letting it blow up my gown until it began to burn and then racing to the recliner to feel the warmth on a chilly winter morning comes to mind when i think of AYBS in the background. I pretended to be Miss Brahms (who had an ironic name, since Brahms was known for lullabies and her voice was a cockney cackle) and thought it would be fun to work in retail with such colorful people. At the time it didn't seem odd to me that most kids were watching cartoons while I was laughing at sexual double-entendres, and it doesn't strike me odd now, really. I was always a weird kid.
...and not in a "cool" way. I don't want to dwell too much on the past because I like where I am now, but I was a bit depressive, and certain elements of my life made me seek out "otherness" and be different. I'd reject the norms and be unique and then huff and feel isolated because i didn't fit in- a theme in my life. When i began to develop my personality, one of my deliberate severances was kidsplay. I liked being around adults more, and adult things like the dry humor of Britcoms rather than, say, He-man. Sure, this means that I might have missed out or had an incomplete development (i dispute that) but I don't regret tuning into To the Manor Born (my favorite) or Yes, Minister, or AYBS. Zaniness, silliness, class- questioning, crass manners, and melodramatic endings- those appealed to me and my sense of humor, wonder, and escape. The British Ilse programming (brought to you by Parkersburg Distributing Company, distributing Bass Ales and fine Ales to northern and central West Virginia!) was exotic to me, as amusing as that might sound. I was from a small, boring, college town in the third world of Appalachia, so my lifelines were Seventeen Magazine, MTV and Britcoms which were filmed at least a decade before.
I carried with me the appreciation for the comedy genre and eventually all things British and continue to tune into Fresh Fields, As Time Goes By, The Vicar of Dibly, and yes, AYBS is still on. It opened up the world of Monty Python for me, and I notoriously like the British Office more than the American. Though now i know it's not "exotic" and everyplace is a Huntington in its own way, I appreciate Britcoms and their players for being friends to me when i needed them- for entertaining me when i was depressed, for being buffoons when I took life too seriously, and for being a bright spot in my week. I never owned Thriller but I do swear that my hair will never be gray in homage to Mrs. Slocombe.
It's closing time, my dear. I know your pussy misses you.
I found out Mollie Sugden died yesterday and two thoughts came to me: first, I didn't know she was still alive, and second, that is probably more important to me personally than Michael Jackson. Now, that might come off as a whiff of pretentiousness, but it's honest and I don't belittle the impact of MJ on people's personal lives. Everyone has their own narrative, and Mrs. Slocombe had a place in mine.
The reason I thought she was already deceased is because Wendy Richards died rather young in comparison (age 66) and I just assumed the graying Mrs. Slocombe had passed before. I think of them in terms of their character on "Are You Being Served" because as an American kid, I didn't know much more about their celebrity or personal lives (not that that matters) unless it came through their work as actors. I can remember being as young as 11, waking up on Saturday morning, grabbing Rice crispies and watching the britcoms on PBS. For some reason, the image of me straddling the floor furnace and letting it blow up my gown until it began to burn and then racing to the recliner to feel the warmth on a chilly winter morning comes to mind when i think of AYBS in the background. I pretended to be Miss Brahms (who had an ironic name, since Brahms was known for lullabies and her voice was a cockney cackle) and thought it would be fun to work in retail with such colorful people. At the time it didn't seem odd to me that most kids were watching cartoons while I was laughing at sexual double-entendres, and it doesn't strike me odd now, really. I was always a weird kid.
...and not in a "cool" way. I don't want to dwell too much on the past because I like where I am now, but I was a bit depressive, and certain elements of my life made me seek out "otherness" and be different. I'd reject the norms and be unique and then huff and feel isolated because i didn't fit in- a theme in my life. When i began to develop my personality, one of my deliberate severances was kidsplay. I liked being around adults more, and adult things like the dry humor of Britcoms rather than, say, He-man. Sure, this means that I might have missed out or had an incomplete development (i dispute that) but I don't regret tuning into To the Manor Born (my favorite) or Yes, Minister, or AYBS. Zaniness, silliness, class- questioning, crass manners, and melodramatic endings- those appealed to me and my sense of humor, wonder, and escape. The British Ilse programming (brought to you by Parkersburg Distributing Company, distributing Bass Ales and fine Ales to northern and central West Virginia!) was exotic to me, as amusing as that might sound. I was from a small, boring, college town in the third world of Appalachia, so my lifelines were Seventeen Magazine, MTV and Britcoms which were filmed at least a decade before.
I carried with me the appreciation for the comedy genre and eventually all things British and continue to tune into Fresh Fields, As Time Goes By, The Vicar of Dibly, and yes, AYBS is still on. It opened up the world of Monty Python for me, and I notoriously like the British Office more than the American. Though now i know it's not "exotic" and everyplace is a Huntington in its own way, I appreciate Britcoms and their players for being friends to me when i needed them- for entertaining me when i was depressed, for being buffoons when I took life too seriously, and for being a bright spot in my week. I never owned Thriller but I do swear that my hair will never be gray in homage to Mrs. Slocombe.
It's closing time, my dear. I know your pussy misses you.
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