Dar Williams' song "It's Alright" from her Promised Land CD album is rollicking along on my stereo tonight, and I find that, indeed, "it's all alright." After a first semester of graduate school in which I took a bit of a walloping and struggled to keep on kicking, I've found my stride here, in more ways than one. I actually love that phrase because when I'm feeling out of sorts, stressed, or a little lost I oftentimes walk great distances, and even though it is something I frequently do as someone who backpacks, it always takes a bit of walking and a bit of struggling before I finally find my stride.
Our second semester began last week, a fact I can hardly fathom. The way my graduate program works, the second semester blows into the summer (which is filled with research - for me, a summer-long trip to Asia), which blows right back into the fall. It feels a little bit like all that time is already lost to me, as I know the pace at which things will move once this weekend passes. But so it goes. Time always goes more quickly than I would will it to.
I reviewed my old blog posts earlier tonight, and was reminded of a friend I met this summer while working in Costa Rica. He was a videographer on the field research project with which I assisted, and we shared a bunkbed in a family vacation house out of which we were based. I had the luckless upper bunk, and every night after I stepped off his heavy duty camera box (locked by a heavy silver chain to the bed itself during our days in the field) and up onto the rungs of the bed, he would take a few minutes to scribble something in a small notebook before shutting the light and wishing me a good night.
Not known for my recalcitrance (not one bit!), I asked him what he was up to, and was caught very much off guard by his answer that it was his "diary." Now, this is not some skinny hipster boy, and not some soulful, introverted nerdy boy (at least not on the outside) either. This is a strong, rather attractive, outdoorsy type. The solid built, Nordic skiing, wrap-your-arms-around-my-chest-and-hang-on-little-lady, type of guy. Consummate professional, passionate about his craft, committed to nailing the shot. No way would I have guessed that under his pillow was a five year diary.
It turns out that his father and I believe grandfather before him had kept these diaries, scribbling down not what the day felt like, but mostly what happened, where, and with whom. He told me that his father had a diary entry for most of the days of his life, including his wedding to this fellow's mother, and the days he and his sibling were born. When the kids became old enough his dad shared what he had written on those life-changing days, and it was something my friend had always valued and respected. So there he was, 27 some odd years old this summer, a committed diarist, recording the days' events for his own recollection, if not public posterity. Come to think of it, there's a day or two I would be curious to read his thoughts on...
I thought of that little bound book of personal history today as I reviewed this site, mulling over a conversation with a friend about where and how we share our thoughts and reflection, and caught myself grinning (still!) at the story about Greg and Alaska, aching for the loneliness of the days after Paul (and there were so many), and cracking a grin at the fishtank story. Maybe my blogging quietly and infrequently over the last almost three years hasn't been the lackluster effort I've characterized it as, but simply an implicit acknowledgement of what I might have guessed - that in a big way, I'm telling these stories for myself. In which case, it's not a symtom of my failure that no one reads this blog (since I've not done anything to link it to anyone else), but a document that so far has existed for me, as a chronology of who I am.
But I do have stories I want to tell, and to have heard and more importantly read by others, and I spend countless and inappropriate hours pining for the courage to take the steps to make that happen. Sometimes it feels like I am made up of no more than a long series of sometimes endless stories. Maybe all of life is made up of such epic tales. In which case, we shouldn't hesitate to fail, or thrash, or struggle along the way, as I did last semester. Maybe some of the stories are about failures, and maybe their juxtaposition with the successes is what makes the latter shine so brightly in the telling. Maybe, maybe, maybe...
But tonight, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright. A new semester lies ahead. I spent the weekend in DC, and returned feeling refreshed and revived by the friendships and shared energies of conversations I have and had there. I've changed my advisor, I've interviewed for a scholarship. Everything is looking up, even as I remind myself to be cautious in celebration of little successes. And of course, as with all moments in which things look up, I've somewhat recently meant someone I could really care for, given timing, communication, mutual will and, perhaps, alignment of the cosmos. I really don't know if it's anything or if he wants it, and that's okay. The only thing that's for sure is that we will see, and time will tell - truths previous posts belie.
But it's alright, it's alright, it's alright. For tonight, I can wait.
Showing posts with label identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label identity. Show all posts
January 22, 2009
May 05, 2008
On My Way Out
Two in one day - how's that for exciting?!
Although my blog documents the decision-making process that led to me deciding to matriculate at FES this fall, this month, my last in DC, finds me a bit mired in nostalgia, with more affection for the city than I would generally like to admit to.
I have 26 more days in the 20010 zip code, 26 more days of my fantastically diverse neighborhood, with all the drama and problems that that encompasses. 26 more days of sitting on my shoddy back porch with the housemates, doing almost nothing at all besides enjoying the gorgeous DC spring. 26 more days of this fabulous cast of characters being my housemates, at all.
Of course, there are good reasons to leave, but it's easier to see the reasons to stay when you're facing your own certain departure, especially when the line, "this month, my last in DC," is so familiar.
As I've said or alluded to in previous posts, December 2007 was supposed to be my last in DC, and January 14 was supposed to be the day I tried not to cry while driving away.
Luckily for me (mind the change in perspective!), my then-boyfriend broke up with me, leaving me to reclaim my room in the group house I share with four others, reestablish ties with people, friends I thought I was leaving, and rediscover that, truly, I love DC.
Instead I stayed, and re-did all of those things, and accomplished a few new ones as well.
I learned to work from home, as a consultant, and manage my time better. I created a home office to work out of, saved up for and paid some big bucks for a friend's destination wedding (which was worth every cent), and made new friends. I followed up on barely-there friendships from my last 9-to-5 (or 6, or 7), and turned them into true friendships, and I learned a lot about myself as a person. Like that I'm just as strong as I thought I was and, in many ways, stronger.
I even came around to see the bright side of Paul breaking up with me, which is that I don't know if I would have decided to pursue the graduate school program to which I was admitted if I was looking the debt in the face with him by my side (he is profoundly debt-averse), especially since he wanted to go West, not North and East. But instead, I was able to take stock in my options, and decide to go North and East alone. (So there, Paul!)
But now after all these good and healthy realizations, the renewed direction and reinvigorated...EVERYTHING, I am leaving this base that has provided the foundation for all the self-defense and self-reflection I needed to do in the last few months, and I admit it's a tad scary. DC has been good to me. My friends have been good to me here.
So with 26 more days, what's a girl to do?
I want to go to the National Gallery and the Sackler, the museums I never got to. I wanted to go to the Hotel Washington rooftop restaurant and watch the sun go down over the National Mall, but late last week I found out it's been liquidated (oh, well). I want to go camping with my friends and do happy hours, and I want to walk around Columbia Heights more. I want to explore my neighborhood and meet more of my neighbors (belatedly, I know), and I want to dance with my girlfriends. I want to sit out on the back porch with my housemates wrapped in a comforter, tea on the wicker table in front of me, as I did yesterday, and do nothing in the company of friends.
For my last 26 days in DC I want to be still and content, and just be here, and not anywhere else.
I have loved DC.
Although my blog documents the decision-making process that led to me deciding to matriculate at FES this fall, this month, my last in DC, finds me a bit mired in nostalgia, with more affection for the city than I would generally like to admit to.
I have 26 more days in the 20010 zip code, 26 more days of my fantastically diverse neighborhood, with all the drama and problems that that encompasses. 26 more days of sitting on my shoddy back porch with the housemates, doing almost nothing at all besides enjoying the gorgeous DC spring. 26 more days of this fabulous cast of characters being my housemates, at all.
Of course, there are good reasons to leave, but it's easier to see the reasons to stay when you're facing your own certain departure, especially when the line, "this month, my last in DC," is so familiar.
As I've said or alluded to in previous posts, December 2007 was supposed to be my last in DC, and January 14 was supposed to be the day I tried not to cry while driving away.
Luckily for me (mind the change in perspective!), my then-boyfriend broke up with me, leaving me to reclaim my room in the group house I share with four others, reestablish ties with people, friends I thought I was leaving, and rediscover that, truly, I love DC.
Instead I stayed, and re-did all of those things, and accomplished a few new ones as well.
I learned to work from home, as a consultant, and manage my time better. I created a home office to work out of, saved up for and paid some big bucks for a friend's destination wedding (which was worth every cent), and made new friends. I followed up on barely-there friendships from my last 9-to-5 (or 6, or 7), and turned them into true friendships, and I learned a lot about myself as a person. Like that I'm just as strong as I thought I was and, in many ways, stronger.
I even came around to see the bright side of Paul breaking up with me, which is that I don't know if I would have decided to pursue the graduate school program to which I was admitted if I was looking the debt in the face with him by my side (he is profoundly debt-averse), especially since he wanted to go West, not North and East. But instead, I was able to take stock in my options, and decide to go North and East alone. (So there, Paul!)
But now after all these good and healthy realizations, the renewed direction and reinvigorated...EVERYTHING, I am leaving this base that has provided the foundation for all the self-defense and self-reflection I needed to do in the last few months, and I admit it's a tad scary. DC has been good to me. My friends have been good to me here.
So with 26 more days, what's a girl to do?
I want to go to the National Gallery and the Sackler, the museums I never got to. I wanted to go to the Hotel Washington rooftop restaurant and watch the sun go down over the National Mall, but late last week I found out it's been liquidated (oh, well). I want to go camping with my friends and do happy hours, and I want to walk around Columbia Heights more. I want to explore my neighborhood and meet more of my neighbors (belatedly, I know), and I want to dance with my girlfriends. I want to sit out on the back porch with my housemates wrapped in a comforter, tea on the wicker table in front of me, as I did yesterday, and do nothing in the company of friends.
For my last 26 days in DC I want to be still and content, and just be here, and not anywhere else.
I have loved DC.
My First Blog
While procrastinating on work today I spent some time catching up on Feministing, one of my all time favorite Feminist blogs, and one which I have been reading for almost two years now, as I realized with a shock about a week or two ago. Feministing blogger Ann (a fellow DC resident - Hey-yeah!) had given props to another Feminist blog, Feminist Finance, which she recently discovered, and which I promptly read, enjoyed, and bookmarked under my blogs tab (where all good procrastinators go to die, or, at least, to find some interesting food for thought to power them through the long part of the afternoon).
While on the topic of Feminist Finance, the post I particularly enjoyed (on 'Marrying Debt') can be found here.
Finding a new blog I liked made me think a bit about my first one, and how I became interested in blogs altogether.
I know there's a healthy proportion of our population that don't do anything with (read, write, comment on, or discuss) blogs, but I think they have a lot of value. Although I was interested in blogging as an idea and a venue for writing (and for practicing writing), I probably wouldn't have ever become a blogger (albeit one who is thus far inconsistent, and as far as one can tell, unread!) or reader of blogs if it wasn't for the Washington Post and Bad Feminist.
Two years or so ago I read a Washington Post article on some vaguely feminist issue, and saw that the sidebar included a list of blogs that had recently commented on the piece. I don't think they have this functionality anymore (that, or I just haven't read the WaPo recently enough), because they probably realized they were driving some seriously valuable traffic away from their site. But the blog's name was "Bad Feminist," and the blogger was awesome.
Bad Feminist took some seriously, awesomely antiquated 1950's and earlier imagery and used it to spice up her blog posts, and posted about personal issues, in her own voice, in a direct and engaging way that inspired me. At a time when I felt a bit adrift in my own feminism, and relatively unsupported as an as-yet-unconnected (read: newly arrived) feminist in DC, Bad Feminist made me feel like I was not the only one wrestling with many of these ideas, or ascribed to the values that are to me what feminism is all about.
It is ironic, then, for me to recall that Bad Feminist was some level of Yale student, as I will soon be, and saddening that she eventually closed up shop, and stopped blogging. I keep her on my blogroll as a kind of tribute, and also for the other blogs she exposed me to.
From the Bad Feminist blogroll I eventually branched out to discover Feministing, F-Words, Broadsheet (for which I have some serious love and respect), Bitch Ph.D., Pandagon, Feministe, and many others, and started to develop an interest in blogging, myself.
That I would continue to discover new blogs by moving from these more well-established bases, and that this process would continue to unfold, has been exciting, as I love the moment when I read a new blog and something clicks. I know not all blogs will hit home with me (of the ones listed above, Feministing, F-Words, and Broadsheet have been nearly daily sources of information and inspiration for me), just as I know not everyone will like my writing, or my little blog project. Some people might think writing about personal experiences, and in the first person, is boring. But I like personal experiences, and I enjoy learning that my own experiences are common to others - it's reassuring, surprising, exciting, and validating.
I just hope that at least a few people will find my blog worth a read, once in awhile, and that I will continue to develop my voice, much as I have watched these other ladies develop theirs.
While on the topic of Feminist Finance, the post I particularly enjoyed (on 'Marrying Debt') can be found here.
Finding a new blog I liked made me think a bit about my first one, and how I became interested in blogs altogether.
I know there's a healthy proportion of our population that don't do anything with (read, write, comment on, or discuss) blogs, but I think they have a lot of value. Although I was interested in blogging as an idea and a venue for writing (and for practicing writing), I probably wouldn't have ever become a blogger (albeit one who is thus far inconsistent, and as far as one can tell, unread!) or reader of blogs if it wasn't for the Washington Post and Bad Feminist.
Two years or so ago I read a Washington Post article on some vaguely feminist issue, and saw that the sidebar included a list of blogs that had recently commented on the piece. I don't think they have this functionality anymore (that, or I just haven't read the WaPo recently enough), because they probably realized they were driving some seriously valuable traffic away from their site. But the blog's name was "Bad Feminist," and the blogger was awesome.
Bad Feminist took some seriously, awesomely antiquated 1950's and earlier imagery and used it to spice up her blog posts, and posted about personal issues, in her own voice, in a direct and engaging way that inspired me. At a time when I felt a bit adrift in my own feminism, and relatively unsupported as an as-yet-unconnected (read: newly arrived) feminist in DC, Bad Feminist made me feel like I was not the only one wrestling with many of these ideas, or ascribed to the values that are to me what feminism is all about.
It is ironic, then, for me to recall that Bad Feminist was some level of Yale student, as I will soon be, and saddening that she eventually closed up shop, and stopped blogging. I keep her on my blogroll as a kind of tribute, and also for the other blogs she exposed me to.
From the Bad Feminist blogroll I eventually branched out to discover Feministing, F-Words, Broadsheet (for which I have some serious love and respect), Bitch Ph.D., Pandagon, Feministe, and many others, and started to develop an interest in blogging, myself.
That I would continue to discover new blogs by moving from these more well-established bases, and that this process would continue to unfold, has been exciting, as I love the moment when I read a new blog and something clicks. I know not all blogs will hit home with me (of the ones listed above, Feministing, F-Words, and Broadsheet have been nearly daily sources of information and inspiration for me), just as I know not everyone will like my writing, or my little blog project. Some people might think writing about personal experiences, and in the first person, is boring. But I like personal experiences, and I enjoy learning that my own experiences are common to others - it's reassuring, surprising, exciting, and validating.
I just hope that at least a few people will find my blog worth a read, once in awhile, and that I will continue to develop my voice, much as I have watched these other ladies develop theirs.
March 19, 2008
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
The amount of time and activity that has passed between each of these all-too-weak blog posts is embarrassing, and amazing. I am constantly in a state of surprise at how quickly the time passes, even while seeming to drag along. I constantly wonder what it is I am racing towards, and if, when I get there, I will feel as if I missed some important part, some space that was supposed to be populated by a deep breath, some fresh air, a renewed sense of self, and an actual decision about my future.
Decision-making has become more important to me, as of late, because in January I lost the ability to make decisions, and became a bystander to my own...fate, for lack of a better word.
When I last blogged, I was in love. Terribly, wonderfully, totally taken with it, in love. I actually (I blush a little typing this) didn't know love could feel that way. I didn't know how deeply I could be consumed by my affection for another person, how completely it would permeate all the different layers of the person I thought I was.
And as a result, I couldn't begin to understand how badly it would hurt me if I lost it, which I did. In December, the man I love(d?) returned from two months in Mexico, to a version of myself that seems remarkably distant, and ended our relationship, in a fiery showdown in a hotel lobby, two weeks before I moved to Minnesota to be with him.
It almost reads like a movie, but it wasn't, and it was heart wrenching. It still is heart wrenching, every day, and I'm still trying to work through it. But as I recover, or perhaps rediscover myself -isolated from the large whole into which I had so happily and unwittingly been subsumed, I am trying to return to that list of things which "I've always wanted to try." And this blog is one of them.
I lost decision-making capability on another front in January, as well. In the day before Paul and I finalized our break up (I resent the use of 'I' as an actor in this sentence), I submitted a single graduate school application - to the Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies, a program about which I cared passionately, until Paul came home from Mexico, at least.
On that front, I am pleased to discover that my decision-making capacity has been restored, at least temporarily - I find myself admitted to Yale for 2008, although I'm not sure I can enroll without taking due time to mourn, some more, and to find myself, first.
So that's where I've been, and that's why the title. I was off between a rock and a hard place.
Decision-making has become more important to me, as of late, because in January I lost the ability to make decisions, and became a bystander to my own...fate, for lack of a better word.
When I last blogged, I was in love. Terribly, wonderfully, totally taken with it, in love. I actually (I blush a little typing this) didn't know love could feel that way. I didn't know how deeply I could be consumed by my affection for another person, how completely it would permeate all the different layers of the person I thought I was.
And as a result, I couldn't begin to understand how badly it would hurt me if I lost it, which I did. In December, the man I love(d?) returned from two months in Mexico, to a version of myself that seems remarkably distant, and ended our relationship, in a fiery showdown in a hotel lobby, two weeks before I moved to Minnesota to be with him.
It almost reads like a movie, but it wasn't, and it was heart wrenching. It still is heart wrenching, every day, and I'm still trying to work through it. But as I recover, or perhaps rediscover myself -isolated from the large whole into which I had so happily and unwittingly been subsumed, I am trying to return to that list of things which "I've always wanted to try." And this blog is one of them.
I lost decision-making capability on another front in January, as well. In the day before Paul and I finalized our break up (I resent the use of 'I' as an actor in this sentence), I submitted a single graduate school application - to the Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies, a program about which I cared passionately, until Paul came home from Mexico, at least.
On that front, I am pleased to discover that my decision-making capacity has been restored, at least temporarily - I find myself admitted to Yale for 2008, although I'm not sure I can enroll without taking due time to mourn, some more, and to find myself, first.
So that's where I've been, and that's why the title. I was off between a rock and a hard place.
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