Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Monday, July 23, 2012
Part Two of Two Part Series: Paths
Before I begin, thank you to those who left comments on Part One. Paths, life choices, opportunities; all these topics are too complicated and multifaceted for one blogger to face and define alone. So thanks for letting me see your way of approaching these subjects.
Now, are we ready for part two?
The Book: Traveling with Pomegrantates- a Mother and Daughter Journey to the Sacred Places of Greece, Turkey, and France.
The Character: Ann Kidd (Taylor)
So far in this series on paths we've covered, somewhat, the topic of "choosing" a life path, and we've seen what a difficult work that can be. I'm going to be talking more in this post about the disappointment one feels when our chosen path doesn't end up choosing us. And I'll be talking about the discouragement we may feel before (and during!) a transition to another track.
The setting: Greece. Ann has just graduated from college, studying history. On this postgraduate trip she falls in love with everything Greek; the food, the people, the history, the scenery, the mythology. Suddenly, it occurs to her that this is what she wants to do. She wants to dedicate her graduate studies to Greek history, with the plan of becoming a professor of ancient Greek history.
She feels alight with purpose; everything is falling into place. She applies to her chosen school, a place within the suitable price range that specializes in Greek history. Months later, her world falls apart when she receives a rejection letter. Brokenhearted, she is left pathless and confused.
Months after receiving her rejection letter she is in Greece again with her mother, writer Sue Monk Kidd. Ann feels dismal and the less-than-triumphant return to Greece, the previous focal point of her hopes and dreams, only adds to her depression. But in her depression, she has a lucid moment:
"My mind bounces from one self-recrimination to another, settling finally on the rejection letter, the doorstep where I usually end up with my load of blame and self-loathing. Sometimes, in an attempt to sidestep reality, I binge on memories of how it was before that letter came, and on my daydreams about the life I'd envisioned - silly things like wearing jeans to teach my classes, carrying a brown leather briefcase, updating my passport, planning my next sabbatical to Athens, writing papers on Greece at an antique desk. When I think about those reveries now, though, they seem infused with romance. There is nothing in them about a fervent interest in students, grading stacks of papers, chiseling out lesson plans, or sitting through faculty meetings. I'm not enthused by these facets of the job- the nitty gritty parts- and this sudden revelation both disconcerts and embarrasses me" (81 emphasis added).
This excerpt struck a major chord with me. I enjoy reading Ann's journey so much because I think she's really hit on something here. It's something I like to call "doing over being". I think everyone can admit to wanting to "be" someone or something. When we're young we all dream of being U.S. President, a doctor, author, artist, the next Einstein or Earheart. And when we're young we, like Ann, never think about the nitty gritty work of actually being these people. It's a romance. In fact as we age (if you're me at least), once we find out about the requisites of being such people we abandon it and find something we'd rather be.
I'm beginning to realize how backwards I've always had it. The best career advice Derrick ever got was from a woman who told him to find whatever it was that made him hot under the collar and then work on that. The actual work you want to do will be worth the nitty gritty unpleasant parts. In the book, Ann's mother calls it "finding your necessary fire". Ann says:
"To me, this idea meant finding work with which I had a deep compatability, a true affinity, yet work that also held the possibility to bring me alive.
A fire was ignited in me on that first trip to Greece, but I can't say now that it was the necessary one. . .I admit to myself that if the university called me today and said, Oh, about that letter of rejection it was a big mistake, we want you after all, I doubt I would go. Graduate school has lost most of its combustion, and it's not just the dissapointment that dampened it. I'm beginning to see it differently. When I separated the romance of teaching ancient Greek history from the daily demands of the job, I realized it was never teaching I wanted; it was Greece. I did not have a deep compatibility with teaching, and chances were it would not bring me alive.
Writing. Growing up, it's all I wanted to do. Now I feel the way it pulls at me. Not like a dramatic allurement, but like I've been away from home and have returned to the quiet things I love" (188).
Ann proceeds to work hard at her writing skills, not always thrilling at the exercises, but feeling more alive each time she does them. For her, the doing of the writing is the attraction, not the romantic idea of being a writer per se.
So here I admit that my idea of grabbing at figs willy nilly might actually mean that we're grabbing at romantic ideas of things we think we want. We aren't grabbing the work of something we feel deeply about, we are reaching only for the romanticized false fruit of the "other" life. I tip my hat to Lindsay, my friend and commenter, who remarked that she must weigh figs against what she feels truly is her life's work.
Ann was able to come to the realization of her life's work through failure, rejection, self-honesty, time, travel, her relationship with her mother, an ability to tune in to herself through her dreams and other subconscious communications and finally, WORK. I hope I can be so self-aware.
Like Lindsay, I know for sure that my figs include my relationships, especially with Lissie and Derrick. I know for sure that I want to somehow improve the situation of women in the world. As for how, that will be revealed. In time. Some other shiny and tempting figs might have to be offered on a sacrificial platter or left to turn black and rot on their stem while I figure out the "how". Or maybe those figs will stay there for someone else who is figuring out not who they want to be, but what they truly want to do. Maybe one of those figs is for you.
So what do you think? Do you have any ideas about figuring out the "how" or "what" of your life's work? Have you ever experienced the being vs. doing syndrome? I'd love to hear from you.
Works Cited:
Kidd, Sue Monk, Ann Kidd Taylor. Traveling with Pomegranates. Penguin Books, NY 2009.
Now, are we ready for part two?
The Book: Traveling with Pomegrantates- a Mother and Daughter Journey to the Sacred Places of Greece, Turkey, and France.
The Character: Ann Kidd (Taylor)
So far in this series on paths we've covered, somewhat, the topic of "choosing" a life path, and we've seen what a difficult work that can be. I'm going to be talking more in this post about the disappointment one feels when our chosen path doesn't end up choosing us. And I'll be talking about the discouragement we may feel before (and during!) a transition to another track.
The setting: Greece. Ann has just graduated from college, studying history. On this postgraduate trip she falls in love with everything Greek; the food, the people, the history, the scenery, the mythology. Suddenly, it occurs to her that this is what she wants to do. She wants to dedicate her graduate studies to Greek history, with the plan of becoming a professor of ancient Greek history.
She feels alight with purpose; everything is falling into place. She applies to her chosen school, a place within the suitable price range that specializes in Greek history. Months later, her world falls apart when she receives a rejection letter. Brokenhearted, she is left pathless and confused.
Months after receiving her rejection letter she is in Greece again with her mother, writer Sue Monk Kidd. Ann feels dismal and the less-than-triumphant return to Greece, the previous focal point of her hopes and dreams, only adds to her depression. But in her depression, she has a lucid moment:
"My mind bounces from one self-recrimination to another, settling finally on the rejection letter, the doorstep where I usually end up with my load of blame and self-loathing. Sometimes, in an attempt to sidestep reality, I binge on memories of how it was before that letter came, and on my daydreams about the life I'd envisioned - silly things like wearing jeans to teach my classes, carrying a brown leather briefcase, updating my passport, planning my next sabbatical to Athens, writing papers on Greece at an antique desk. When I think about those reveries now, though, they seem infused with romance. There is nothing in them about a fervent interest in students, grading stacks of papers, chiseling out lesson plans, or sitting through faculty meetings. I'm not enthused by these facets of the job- the nitty gritty parts- and this sudden revelation both disconcerts and embarrasses me" (81 emphasis added).
This excerpt struck a major chord with me. I enjoy reading Ann's journey so much because I think she's really hit on something here. It's something I like to call "doing over being". I think everyone can admit to wanting to "be" someone or something. When we're young we all dream of being U.S. President, a doctor, author, artist, the next Einstein or Earheart. And when we're young we, like Ann, never think about the nitty gritty work of actually being these people. It's a romance. In fact as we age (if you're me at least), once we find out about the requisites of being such people we abandon it and find something we'd rather be.
I'm beginning to realize how backwards I've always had it. The best career advice Derrick ever got was from a woman who told him to find whatever it was that made him hot under the collar and then work on that. The actual work you want to do will be worth the nitty gritty unpleasant parts. In the book, Ann's mother calls it "finding your necessary fire". Ann says:
"To me, this idea meant finding work with which I had a deep compatability, a true affinity, yet work that also held the possibility to bring me alive.
A fire was ignited in me on that first trip to Greece, but I can't say now that it was the necessary one. . .I admit to myself that if the university called me today and said, Oh, about that letter of rejection it was a big mistake, we want you after all, I doubt I would go. Graduate school has lost most of its combustion, and it's not just the dissapointment that dampened it. I'm beginning to see it differently. When I separated the romance of teaching ancient Greek history from the daily demands of the job, I realized it was never teaching I wanted; it was Greece. I did not have a deep compatibility with teaching, and chances were it would not bring me alive.
Writing. Growing up, it's all I wanted to do. Now I feel the way it pulls at me. Not like a dramatic allurement, but like I've been away from home and have returned to the quiet things I love" (188).
Ann proceeds to work hard at her writing skills, not always thrilling at the exercises, but feeling more alive each time she does them. For her, the doing of the writing is the attraction, not the romantic idea of being a writer per se.
So here I admit that my idea of grabbing at figs willy nilly might actually mean that we're grabbing at romantic ideas of things we think we want. We aren't grabbing the work of something we feel deeply about, we are reaching only for the romanticized false fruit of the "other" life. I tip my hat to Lindsay, my friend and commenter, who remarked that she must weigh figs against what she feels truly is her life's work.
Ann was able to come to the realization of her life's work through failure, rejection, self-honesty, time, travel, her relationship with her mother, an ability to tune in to herself through her dreams and other subconscious communications and finally, WORK. I hope I can be so self-aware.
Like Lindsay, I know for sure that my figs include my relationships, especially with Lissie and Derrick. I know for sure that I want to somehow improve the situation of women in the world. As for how, that will be revealed. In time. Some other shiny and tempting figs might have to be offered on a sacrificial platter or left to turn black and rot on their stem while I figure out the "how". Or maybe those figs will stay there for someone else who is figuring out not who they want to be, but what they truly want to do. Maybe one of those figs is for you.
So what do you think? Do you have any ideas about figuring out the "how" or "what" of your life's work? Have you ever experienced the being vs. doing syndrome? I'd love to hear from you.
Works Cited:
Kidd, Sue Monk, Ann Kidd Taylor. Traveling with Pomegranates. Penguin Books, NY 2009.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Part One of Two Part Series: Paths
Part I:
When I think about it, and I realize I'm hardly objective about this, I think the 20s must be the hardest period of a person's life. As in decisions. paralyzing. fear. everything. depends. on. me. making. the. right. decision. right. now. and. I. have. twenty. seconds. to. do. it. right. the. first. time. Intimidating, no?
I haven't been looking for any kind of theme for my summer reading, really. Books have found their way into my lap. And yet I have found a running theme. Paths. Choosing a life path. Feeling debilitated when life paths don't make themselves apparent. Feeling incredibly discouraged when we have to change tracks.
I don't want anyone to OD on this theme in one sitting, because these posts are to be quite literary heavy, full of lovely quotes that resonated with me. Hang in there. Maybe you and I will reach a place of peace, courage and hope at the end of this series. Just maybe.
The Books:
1. The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
2. Traveling with Pomegranates: A Mother and Daughter Journey to the Sacred Places of Greece, Turkey, and France; Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor
The Characters:
1. Esther Greenwood
2. Ann Kidd Taylor
I'm going to move thematically across the texts, from the "choosing a life path", to the "feeling debilitated when life paths don't make themselves apparent", and finally to the "changing tracks" and then...who knows?
For the purposes of this post, I'm focusing on The Bell Jar by Ms. Plath. A good feminist standby. And for some reason it was always a book I was a little afraid to touch for fear that I myself would be caught in a maelstrom of mental instability (the main theme of the book is Esther Greenwood's struggle with mental illness; it's fairly autobiographical, it mirrors Plath's own experiences). Yet no one told me how funny Plath is while addressing this topic. Sure there are serious bits, but her dark humor made the book so surprisingly readable. I recommend it.
Esther receives a rejection letter (a happening shared in our next book with the Kidds) for a Writer's workshop. She is expecting to get in. Suddenly, with rejection letter in hand, she is lost. Directionless, purposeless, she starts hatching half-baked plans, desperate for a path:
" I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover. . .I thought I would spend the summer reading Finnegans Wake and writing my thesis.
"Then I would be way ahead when college started at the end of September, and able to enjoy my last year instead of swotting away with no makeup and stringy hair, on a diet of coffee and Benzedrine, the way most of the seniors taking honors did, until they finished their thesis.
"Then I thought I might put off college for a year and apprentice myself to a pottery maker.
"Or work my way to Germany and be a waitress, until I was bilingual.
"Then plan after plan started leaping through my head, like a family of scatty rabbits.
"I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles, threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three....nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth" (122-123).
The rejection letter from the workshop knocks something loose inside of Esther. She realizes that "The one thing I [am] good at [is] winning scholarships and prizes, and that era [is] coming to an end" (77).
She becomes woundingly unsure of herself. She feels she is a "racehorse in a world without racetracks", woefully unprepared for the world she has to survive in.
"I saw my life branching out before me like [a] green fig tree. . .
"From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet" (77).
Are you identifying with this yet? I so completely and totally identify with this. It strikes me that it is possible to over-think this whole path thing. Striking out and finding your path, moving forward as you best know how is the only way to keep yourself from going absolutely crazy (which, ahem, Esther does by the way), because waiting for it to come to you, well, it just ain't happenin'.
Now, this post is taking a direction I hadn't anticipated. For the past few weeks (years?) I've been thinking a lot about what it means to "have it all" (a topic much too broad for this post, so I won't get into it here too much). I'm reminded of my lovely mentor, Dr. C. Now, this woman is phenomenal, she's helped me through rough times, convinced me to do things I didn't think I could, I trust this woman. She knows me, she knows my situation, my personal life; she's informed and in touch. The last time we had lunch she told me, "You can have it all. Just not all at once." I believe her. It reminded me of Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's reading of The Feminine Mystique. The unexpected message she got from it was that life is long. Oh yeah, YOLO and Carpe Diem and all that crap too, but you gotta have a plan because life phases come to an end.
So is it possible that Esther, that all of us (even me!), could just start grabbing those figs within our reach? Moving forward; taking opportunities as they come along; clearing an area for new opportunities to grow when they're ready, when we're ready?
Until next time, happy fig-grabbing.
What do you make of all this? Grab those figs by the stem? Cherish one at a time? Wait and watch? What's your approach to making life choices? I'm not convinced there is a right or wrong way. P.S. I challenge my own idea of grabbing at figs willy-nilly in part II.
Works Cited:
Plath, Sylvia. The Bell Jar. Harper Perennial Modern Classics. 2006.
When I think about it, and I realize I'm hardly objective about this, I think the 20s must be the hardest period of a person's life. As in decisions. paralyzing. fear. everything. depends. on. me. making. the. right. decision. right. now. and. I. have. twenty. seconds. to. do. it. right. the. first. time. Intimidating, no?
I haven't been looking for any kind of theme for my summer reading, really. Books have found their way into my lap. And yet I have found a running theme. Paths. Choosing a life path. Feeling debilitated when life paths don't make themselves apparent. Feeling incredibly discouraged when we have to change tracks.
I don't want anyone to OD on this theme in one sitting, because these posts are to be quite literary heavy, full of lovely quotes that resonated with me. Hang in there. Maybe you and I will reach a place of peace, courage and hope at the end of this series. Just maybe.
The Books:
1. The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
2. Traveling with Pomegranates: A Mother and Daughter Journey to the Sacred Places of Greece, Turkey, and France; Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor
The Characters:
1. Esther Greenwood
2. Ann Kidd Taylor
I'm going to move thematically across the texts, from the "choosing a life path", to the "feeling debilitated when life paths don't make themselves apparent", and finally to the "changing tracks" and then...who knows?
For the purposes of this post, I'm focusing on The Bell Jar by Ms. Plath. A good feminist standby. And for some reason it was always a book I was a little afraid to touch for fear that I myself would be caught in a maelstrom of mental instability (the main theme of the book is Esther Greenwood's struggle with mental illness; it's fairly autobiographical, it mirrors Plath's own experiences). Yet no one told me how funny Plath is while addressing this topic. Sure there are serious bits, but her dark humor made the book so surprisingly readable. I recommend it.
Esther receives a rejection letter (a happening shared in our next book with the Kidds) for a Writer's workshop. She is expecting to get in. Suddenly, with rejection letter in hand, she is lost. Directionless, purposeless, she starts hatching half-baked plans, desperate for a path:
" I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover. . .I thought I would spend the summer reading Finnegans Wake and writing my thesis.
"Then I would be way ahead when college started at the end of September, and able to enjoy my last year instead of swotting away with no makeup and stringy hair, on a diet of coffee and Benzedrine, the way most of the seniors taking honors did, until they finished their thesis.
"Then I thought I might put off college for a year and apprentice myself to a pottery maker.
"Or work my way to Germany and be a waitress, until I was bilingual.
"Then plan after plan started leaping through my head, like a family of scatty rabbits.
"I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles, threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three....nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth" (122-123).
The rejection letter from the workshop knocks something loose inside of Esther. She realizes that "The one thing I [am] good at [is] winning scholarships and prizes, and that era [is] coming to an end" (77).
She becomes woundingly unsure of herself. She feels she is a "racehorse in a world without racetracks", woefully unprepared for the world she has to survive in.
"I saw my life branching out before me like [a] green fig tree. . .
"From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet" (77).
Are you identifying with this yet? I so completely and totally identify with this. It strikes me that it is possible to over-think this whole path thing. Striking out and finding your path, moving forward as you best know how is the only way to keep yourself from going absolutely crazy (which, ahem, Esther does by the way), because waiting for it to come to you, well, it just ain't happenin'.
Now, this post is taking a direction I hadn't anticipated. For the past few weeks (years?) I've been thinking a lot about what it means to "have it all" (a topic much too broad for this post, so I won't get into it here too much). I'm reminded of my lovely mentor, Dr. C. Now, this woman is phenomenal, she's helped me through rough times, convinced me to do things I didn't think I could, I trust this woman. She knows me, she knows my situation, my personal life; she's informed and in touch. The last time we had lunch she told me, "You can have it all. Just not all at once." I believe her. It reminded me of Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's reading of The Feminine Mystique. The unexpected message she got from it was that life is long. Oh yeah, YOLO and Carpe Diem and all that crap too, but you gotta have a plan because life phases come to an end.
So is it possible that Esther, that all of us (even me!), could just start grabbing those figs within our reach? Moving forward; taking opportunities as they come along; clearing an area for new opportunities to grow when they're ready, when we're ready?
Until next time, happy fig-grabbing.
What do you make of all this? Grab those figs by the stem? Cherish one at a time? Wait and watch? What's your approach to making life choices? I'm not convinced there is a right or wrong way. P.S. I challenge my own idea of grabbing at figs willy-nilly in part II.
Works Cited:
Plath, Sylvia. The Bell Jar. Harper Perennial Modern Classics. 2006.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
enthralled
Derrick said today, and I concurred, that maybe an overload of decision-making can permanently impair your ability to feel your way to decisions and make them. Things have been pretty crazy around here, as you might have guessed by my relative blog silence. I'd resolved to write posts about some decisions made for quite some time, and then realized that I just haven't had the strength or ability to execute. We'll see if I can tonight.
First, to understand me and Derrick's state of mind right now, you simply must go and see this definition for the word enthralled. And if you don't, I'm about to give it to you. It's simply this:
Works Cited:
Mayes, Frances. Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy. Broadway Books, NY 1996.
A Woman's Path. Kim Tinsley. Travelers' Tales, Berkeley, California 2000.
First, to understand me and Derrick's state of mind right now, you simply must go and see this definition for the word enthralled. And if you don't, I'm about to give it to you. It's simply this:
1. To hold spellbound; captivate.
2. To enslave.
An interesting double-word, don't you think? And this pretty much sums up the roller coaster that is my fragile mental state right now. One moment, I'm at the top, truly captivated by the exciting possibilities, and the next I'm downcast and morose, lost in the worrying tides of change.
Years ago I came across a passage in Frances Mayes' work, Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy. (Please banish all thoughts of that atrocious movie with Diane Lane. The book is so much better and unbelievably different.) She talks about her love for houses. Mayes' sister will ask, "What is her house like?" and it is understood she means "what is she like?"
She writes that one "summer I stayed in a little casa in San Miguel de Allende in which I developed a serious love for fountained courtyards and bedrooms with bougainvillea cascading down the balcony. . .One summer in Santa Fe, I started looking at adobes there, imagining I would become a Southwesterner, cook with chilies, wear squash blossom turquoise jewelry--a different life, the chance to be extant in another version. At the end of a month I left and never have wanted to return" (15 my emphasis).
It took me a long time to find that passage again. One of the many times I've kicked myself for not highlighting and dog-earing a page I knew I'd want to find again. For reasons unknown, this passage really spoke to me. Maybe because I'm always imagining the person I'll become. Where I feel I'll belong some day. Where I'll finally come home. The idea of home is always an elusive one for me. Maybe it is for you too.
And right now Derrick and I are trying to find out where our home will be for the next few years. As it happens when couples cross-apply, we've realized that we're going to have to make the difficult move of choosing between his program or mine. We had decided to stay at BYU for my master's until we unexpectedly received word back about a program Derrick had applied to in New York City. So right now it's between Provo, the familiar, and NYC, the very-much-unknown.
Like Mayes, I'll be enthralled by fantasies of myself as adjusted New Yorker. Unafraid of the subways. Maneuvering the sidewalks. Shopping at flea markets and farmer's markets to my heart's content. Maybe even starting a rooftop garden on top of my walk-up apartment building and raising some urban chickens. Sometimes I even dream of participating in this rather intimidating food co-op. And then suddenly the spellbound imagination will change from benevolent to scary, enslaved intimidation, fear and doubt.
As we've started to think more seriously about favoring Derrick's program, I've found that this has been a real grieving process for me. I started out extremely angry and bitter. It was bad. Believe me, it was bad. Then I'd alternate between numbness and depression. And I'm still kind of there sometimes, although it is periodically interspersed with optimism and peace of mind. I'm not giving up on grad school (and I hope and pray it doesn't give up on me). I'll reapply soon, and if we do end up in New York, there are lots of schools in the area I can apply to (unlike the situation here for Derrick), so I'm hopeful.
A decision has not officially been made. Anything could happen. We tend to be spur-of-the-moment, unpredictable decision-makers.
But can I tell you what I've been thinking lately? And it relates back to that Mayes' quote. There is a part of me that believes that sometimes people belong to places. That there really is a perfect home and environment for some people. Maybe. But another thought that has been burgeoning in the back of my mind is that maybe coming home means nothing more than building a home within yourself. In the words of one essayist, "I now know that I can be transported to a place of peace. . .That sacred place of inner calm is my home in the world. It must travel with me wherever I go" (Tinsley 184).
An interesting double-word, don't you think? And this pretty much sums up the roller coaster that is my fragile mental state right now. One moment, I'm at the top, truly captivated by the exciting possibilities, and the next I'm downcast and morose, lost in the worrying tides of change.
Years ago I came across a passage in Frances Mayes' work, Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy. (Please banish all thoughts of that atrocious movie with Diane Lane. The book is so much better and unbelievably different.) She talks about her love for houses. Mayes' sister will ask, "What is her house like?" and it is understood she means "what is she like?"
She writes that one "summer I stayed in a little casa in San Miguel de Allende in which I developed a serious love for fountained courtyards and bedrooms with bougainvillea cascading down the balcony. . .One summer in Santa Fe, I started looking at adobes there, imagining I would become a Southwesterner, cook with chilies, wear squash blossom turquoise jewelry--a different life, the chance to be extant in another version. At the end of a month I left and never have wanted to return" (15 my emphasis).
It took me a long time to find that passage again. One of the many times I've kicked myself for not highlighting and dog-earing a page I knew I'd want to find again. For reasons unknown, this passage really spoke to me. Maybe because I'm always imagining the person I'll become. Where I feel I'll belong some day. Where I'll finally come home. The idea of home is always an elusive one for me. Maybe it is for you too.
And right now Derrick and I are trying to find out where our home will be for the next few years. As it happens when couples cross-apply, we've realized that we're going to have to make the difficult move of choosing between his program or mine. We had decided to stay at BYU for my master's until we unexpectedly received word back about a program Derrick had applied to in New York City. So right now it's between Provo, the familiar, and NYC, the very-much-unknown.
Like Mayes, I'll be enthralled by fantasies of myself as adjusted New Yorker. Unafraid of the subways. Maneuvering the sidewalks. Shopping at flea markets and farmer's markets to my heart's content. Maybe even starting a rooftop garden on top of my walk-up apartment building and raising some urban chickens. Sometimes I even dream of participating in this rather intimidating food co-op. And then suddenly the spellbound imagination will change from benevolent to scary, enslaved intimidation, fear and doubt.
As we've started to think more seriously about favoring Derrick's program, I've found that this has been a real grieving process for me. I started out extremely angry and bitter. It was bad. Believe me, it was bad. Then I'd alternate between numbness and depression. And I'm still kind of there sometimes, although it is periodically interspersed with optimism and peace of mind. I'm not giving up on grad school (and I hope and pray it doesn't give up on me). I'll reapply soon, and if we do end up in New York, there are lots of schools in the area I can apply to (unlike the situation here for Derrick), so I'm hopeful.
A decision has not officially been made. Anything could happen. We tend to be spur-of-the-moment, unpredictable decision-makers.
But can I tell you what I've been thinking lately? And it relates back to that Mayes' quote. There is a part of me that believes that sometimes people belong to places. That there really is a perfect home and environment for some people. Maybe. But another thought that has been burgeoning in the back of my mind is that maybe coming home means nothing more than building a home within yourself. In the words of one essayist, "I now know that I can be transported to a place of peace. . .That sacred place of inner calm is my home in the world. It must travel with me wherever I go" (Tinsley 184).
Works Cited:Mayes, Frances. Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy. Broadway Books, NY 1996.
A Woman's Path. Kim Tinsley. Travelers' Tales, Berkeley, California 2000.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
pass the chevre!
I recently finished reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, a book about eating locally. Although Kingsolver can be incredibly sanctimonious at times, especially at the beginning of this book, her arguments (one of which is learning to celebrate your local food culture and food offerings. buenisima!) for eating locally were sufficiently convincing. And while, yes, I like to eat cheaply most of the time, I would also like to eat more conscientously.
It is impossible to eat really locally in the Utah wintertime, so I'll have to wait for summer to garden and frequent farmer's markets, but I knew at least one thing: dairies are a year-round thing! So I poked around online. Winder Farms is a well-known peddler of local milk, but my eye was also drawn to Drake Family Farms, a goat dairy that sells goat-based wares. For whatever reason, I got a real hankering for some chevre, so I surprised Derrick on our date last Saturday and we drove to this little family farm about 7 minutes away from us.
The "store" is a tool shed. And a locked box with a place to insert your money is the cash register. Isn't that so charming? Here is the store to scale:
Now, I've actually had goat milk before, so I wasn't tempted in the slightest to buy any.
And just to document the rest of our animal adventures, I thought I'd insert a photo of what greeted me outside our door the other morning:
Our upstairs neighbors (and landlords) have a small chicken coop and one very intelligent chicken somehow frequently escapes. She is friendly and likes to follow me around whenever I venture up to the backyard. Maybe she also likes me because I save all our compostable materials and feed them to her and her sisters?
It is impossible to eat really locally in the Utah wintertime, so I'll have to wait for summer to garden and frequent farmer's markets, but I knew at least one thing: dairies are a year-round thing! So I poked around online. Winder Farms is a well-known peddler of local milk, but my eye was also drawn to Drake Family Farms, a goat dairy that sells goat-based wares. For whatever reason, I got a real hankering for some chevre, so I surprised Derrick on our date last Saturday and we drove to this little family farm about 7 minutes away from us.
The "store" is a tool shed. And a locked box with a place to insert your money is the cash register. Isn't that so charming? Here is the store to scale:
Now, I've actually had goat milk before, so I wasn't tempted in the slightest to buy any.
But that doesn't mean we bought nothing. Our selection: Two 32 oz. containers of goat yogurt ($12) and two 4 0z containers of chevre-one plain and one herbs de provence-($8).
We filled out our form, slipped in a $20, and went on our merry way.
And just to document the rest of our animal adventures, I thought I'd insert a photo of what greeted me outside our door the other morning:
Our upstairs neighbors (and landlords) have a small chicken coop and one very intelligent chicken somehow frequently escapes. She is friendly and likes to follow me around whenever I venture up to the backyard. Maybe she also likes me because I save all our compostable materials and feed them to her and her sisters?
So what do you think about eating locally? Have you or would you ever try it?
Friday, December 2, 2011
Off the Shelf: Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother
People are more opinionated about parenting than any other topic in the world. Israeli/Palestinian relations; Nuclear war; and even the meaning of the life are unlikely to spark as much controversy as a new up-and-coming guide to parenting. The reaction to Amy Chua's book, in fact, was akin to a nuclear fallout.
Indeed, my first encounter with Chua was a sneak peek article published by the Wall Street Journal entitled "Why Chinese Mothers are Superior." (http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html) I was intrigued, but mostly incensed with her superior tone, and her methods, which she mentions in the article were a bit offputting to say the least. As it turns out, however, the article was only a publicity stunt in order to increase book sales. Her book is actually much tamer and any serious reading of it only makes the title of her article seem like a sarcastic little joke.
The book is actually not about why "Chinese" mothers are superior. It is nothing more or less than Chua's memoir about trying to be an exacting Chinese parent. A second-generation Chinese immigrant, Chua battles intense angst about passing on her parent's hardworking legacy. She doesn't want her daughters to be entitled and to take their opportunities for granted, so she adopts the methods her own parents used on her to ensure that her daughters appreciate their heritage.
Her daughters are expected to get straight A's, to practice on their instruments (piano and violin) for three hours a day, and are not permitted to be in school plays or participate in sleepovers. Chua drives her daughters hard and uses methods some people have described as "abuse" or "criminal". Her criticisms of Western parenting have caused many readers to weep and gnash their teeth out of rage and guilt.
But this book was never meant to be a criticism. Indeed, Chua is brutally honest about her own mistakes as a parent, and how she alienates one of her daughters. In the end, she partially abandons the Chinese model in order to salvage their relationship.
I will be frank and say that I loved this book. Do I agree with all of Chua's methods? No. And the point is, neither does Chua. The book is about a personal transformation; a transformation that every honest parent goes through. And Chua does it with incredible wit and honesty (I laughed out loud while reading this book!). As a parent with a young daughter, this book greatly informed my personal attitudes towards what it means to be a parent and what parents can teach and expect from their children. Chua earned my respect. The amount of work and dedication she puts into her children's success is inspirational, but more than that I respect her because she learned (slowly, it is true) about her own flaws as a parent and changed.
Indeed, my first encounter with Chua was a sneak peek article published by the Wall Street Journal entitled "Why Chinese Mothers are Superior." (http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html) I was intrigued, but mostly incensed with her superior tone, and her methods, which she mentions in the article were a bit offputting to say the least. As it turns out, however, the article was only a publicity stunt in order to increase book sales. Her book is actually much tamer and any serious reading of it only makes the title of her article seem like a sarcastic little joke.
The book is actually not about why "Chinese" mothers are superior. It is nothing more or less than Chua's memoir about trying to be an exacting Chinese parent. A second-generation Chinese immigrant, Chua battles intense angst about passing on her parent's hardworking legacy. She doesn't want her daughters to be entitled and to take their opportunities for granted, so she adopts the methods her own parents used on her to ensure that her daughters appreciate their heritage.
Her daughters are expected to get straight A's, to practice on their instruments (piano and violin) for three hours a day, and are not permitted to be in school plays or participate in sleepovers. Chua drives her daughters hard and uses methods some people have described as "abuse" or "criminal". Her criticisms of Western parenting have caused many readers to weep and gnash their teeth out of rage and guilt.
But this book was never meant to be a criticism. Indeed, Chua is brutally honest about her own mistakes as a parent, and how she alienates one of her daughters. In the end, she partially abandons the Chinese model in order to salvage their relationship.
I will be frank and say that I loved this book. Do I agree with all of Chua's methods? No. And the point is, neither does Chua. The book is about a personal transformation; a transformation that every honest parent goes through. And Chua does it with incredible wit and honesty (I laughed out loud while reading this book!). As a parent with a young daughter, this book greatly informed my personal attitudes towards what it means to be a parent and what parents can teach and expect from their children. Chua earned my respect. The amount of work and dedication she puts into her children's success is inspirational, but more than that I respect her because she learned (slowly, it is true) about her own flaws as a parent and changed.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
what's on the menu?
I believe a woman's life is significant, no matter her destiny. I believe that the majority of women share a lot of common ground. I think a lot of women also think their daily tasks are so insignifant that they feel it's not worth recording them.
One book I really want to read but haven't yet is A Midwife's Tale by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich. It is based on the diaries of Martha Ballard, a wife, mother, homemaker and midwife in Maine in the mid to late 17th century. She was not a fastidious journal-keeper, but she was a frequent one. Ballard was audacious and confident enough to feel that her daily goings-on warranted recording. Years later, Ulrich won the Pulitzer for compiling and editing Ballard's journals. There's no way Ballard could have known what her journal would bring about, but she did it anyway.
One of those daily tasks that consitute common ground among women is the feeding of themselves and their families. Now this isn't the sole responsibility of women in every society or household, but it is a task many women are either given or a task that is often taken up by women.
In my house, I do the majority of the cooking for several reasons:
Derrick is an awful cook.
I enjoy cooking.
I'm relatively good at it.
If I want to stave my hunger before 8 o'clock, I'm going to have to do it.
I feel comfortable being responsible for this since I am at home in the early evenings and Derrick isn't.
Martha Ballard sometimes documented the meals she would make, among other household tasks. To follow in her noble example, and to someday leave a legacy for my own grandsons and granddaughters, I will do the same this week.
Monday: Pumpkin soup with pumpkin (obviously), chicken stock, sliced potatoes, celery, milk and onion.
Tuesday: Too tired to cook. We had leftovers of pumpkin soup and eggplant parmesan (note that I chose to eat the yummiest before Derrick could get to it).
Wednesday: Masman curry.
Thursday: Bratwurst with mashed potatoes and sauerkraut (my dad would be so proud!).
Friday (tomorrow): Banana squash with pork loin and pinto beans (the last two will go in the crockpot so I don't have to worry about it until it's time to eat).
Three things make NOT eating out and eating homecooked meals easier for me:
Bountiful Baskets with fresh produce each week.
Costco for meat, milk, eggs, cottage cheese and yogurt every two weeks.
My planner: I take stock of what we have every night and write what we'll have for dinner on the next day's agenda.
So enough of my boring life. What tasks of your foremothers would you be interested to know more about? or, how or do you handle the task of feeding your family?
One book I really want to read but haven't yet is A Midwife's Tale by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich. It is based on the diaries of Martha Ballard, a wife, mother, homemaker and midwife in Maine in the mid to late 17th century. She was not a fastidious journal-keeper, but she was a frequent one. Ballard was audacious and confident enough to feel that her daily goings-on warranted recording. Years later, Ulrich won the Pulitzer for compiling and editing Ballard's journals. There's no way Ballard could have known what her journal would bring about, but she did it anyway.
One of those daily tasks that consitute common ground among women is the feeding of themselves and their families. Now this isn't the sole responsibility of women in every society or household, but it is a task many women are either given or a task that is often taken up by women.
In my house, I do the majority of the cooking for several reasons:
Derrick is an awful cook.
I enjoy cooking.
I'm relatively good at it.
If I want to stave my hunger before 8 o'clock, I'm going to have to do it.
I feel comfortable being responsible for this since I am at home in the early evenings and Derrick isn't.
Martha Ballard sometimes documented the meals she would make, among other household tasks. To follow in her noble example, and to someday leave a legacy for my own grandsons and granddaughters, I will do the same this week.
Monday: Pumpkin soup with pumpkin (obviously), chicken stock, sliced potatoes, celery, milk and onion.
Tuesday: Too tired to cook. We had leftovers of pumpkin soup and eggplant parmesan (note that I chose to eat the yummiest before Derrick could get to it).
Wednesday: Masman curry.
Thursday: Bratwurst with mashed potatoes and sauerkraut (my dad would be so proud!).
Friday (tomorrow): Banana squash with pork loin and pinto beans (the last two will go in the crockpot so I don't have to worry about it until it's time to eat).
Three things make NOT eating out and eating homecooked meals easier for me:
Bountiful Baskets with fresh produce each week.
Costco for meat, milk, eggs, cottage cheese and yogurt every two weeks.
My planner: I take stock of what we have every night and write what we'll have for dinner on the next day's agenda.
So enough of my boring life. What tasks of your foremothers would you be interested to know more about? or, how or do you handle the task of feeding your family?
Saturday, September 10, 2011
She's a bore!
Remember this book? There was so much I agreed with and enjoyed about this book, but lately, one thing has been on my mind. Partway through her project, Rubin, who's spent months basically eating, sleeping and drinking literature on happiness and how it can be increased, realizes something important. She's at a party, mixing and mingling, and she realizes from the conversations she's been having that she is, in fact, a happiness bore.
The word "bore", in reference to a person, indicates "monotony, dullness, etc"; "A tiresome person or thing". In Rubin's case, it meant she couldn't shut up about happiness; and, lets face it, don't most of us have something that we'll talk about to anyone who will listen? Government conspiracies to how cute our kids are to how to properly eat a fig?
Being a bore means you talk more than you listen; you make assumptions about who you're talking to; you believe that what you think about a certain issue is more important than what is actually going on at the human level with who you're talking face to face with.
So my new goal is to think what I may think, but to, for goodness sakes, not be a bore about it; to listen more and assume less.
The word "bore", in reference to a person, indicates "monotony, dullness, etc"; "A tiresome person or thing". In Rubin's case, it meant she couldn't shut up about happiness; and, lets face it, don't most of us have something that we'll talk about to anyone who will listen? Government conspiracies to how cute our kids are to how to properly eat a fig?
Being a bore means you talk more than you listen; you make assumptions about who you're talking to; you believe that what you think about a certain issue is more important than what is actually going on at the human level with who you're talking face to face with.
So my new goal is to think what I may think, but to, for goodness sakes, not be a bore about it; to listen more and assume less.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Off the Shelf: The Help
Historically, my "Off the Shelf" posts are concerned with books that have changed my life, or, at least, have caused me to think and question a bit. This blog post is concerned with Kathryn Stockett's The Help, not because I loved it, but because it has made me think. Interestingly, even people who found serious flaws in both the book and the movie have given it credit for stirring up some thinking about racism in America. I concur. (By the way, the link leads to a great article. You should read it.)
I read this book as part of a women's book group for my church. I was wary. I experienced some very conflicted feelings while I read it. When we met to discuss, I was fairly, but hopefully, pleasantly, vocal about what made me uncomfortable with this book. Many of my points have been brought up in more eloquent (and certainly more widely read) articles than this one. I will share links to them further on.
First of all, I think it's extremely important to understand why parts of this book are offensive to many, but certainly not all, Black Americans. You know, oftentimes white people live in a bubble. And that bubble needs to be poked with an ice pick. When I read the book, I was concerned with how black men were portrayed (or not portrayed. One is dead, and the other is an alcoholic, abusive husband). Though I appreciated Aibileen's love and concern for the white child she tended (and this did happen), I was also concerned that Stockett might be giving a false impression of how loveable white children were and are. Many black maids disliked the children they looked after. These are a few of my qualms with the book, but there are many more, and they are discussed wonderfully in this article (this is a GREAT article. You should read it)
So how is it possible that I agree with much that this article (which is also a great article. You should read it too) has to say about the movie (which I haven't seen), and the book that inspired it, and yet The Help has 2 stars, instead of 1 on my Goodreads account?
Well, it's complicated. First of all, I think if white people are supposed to think about race, they should be able to write about it too. Toni Morrison, in her book Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination, writes that we have fallen into a pattern of thinking about racism in terms of its consequences on the "victim", but "that well-established study should be joined with another, equally important one: the impact of racism on those who perpetuate it" (11). She calls for "a serious intellectual effort to see what racial ideology does to the mind, imagination, and behavior of masters"(12).
The Help does not do this. It is not a serious intellectual attempt to do this. But to give Stockett some credit, however, I think she does try.
Such intellectual efforts have been reached though. Mr. Pip, for example is a novel told from the perspective of a black girl from Bougainville, and is, incidentally, written by a white man from New Zealand and it is amazing.
Interestingly, the last two articles I linked up here disagree on the accuracy of the black vernacular used by Stockett's black characters. To be fair to Stockett, and because I am not qualified to weigh in on this matter myself, black American authors have also been accused of exaggerating or inaccurately portraying black southern dialect, namely, Zora Neale Hurston.
Also up for debate are Stockett's two main black characters and whether they avoid the embarrassing and inaccurate historical portrayal of black Americans as "exotic, bestial, silly, or sullen--biologically criminal on one hand or comically simpleminded on the other--in short, the plethora of dehumanizing images callously or sometimes merely carelessly superimposed day after day on the psyches and lives of black (and white) people" (Hansberry x). Personally, I can't say that Aibileen and Minny fit these stereotypes consistently or comfortably, but other interpretations are both justified and welcome.
That doesn't mean, though, that The Help is a good book, simply because it may not enforce the stereotypes of old. The Help is a readable, popular book, but this does not mean it is a good or an accurate one. As mentioned in every article I linked, history has been brushed over and glossed up to make it palatable for a wider, mostly white, audience.
It needs to be understood that one reason for anger from the African-American community is probably connected to the fact that black people are more read about than read from. Uncle Tom's Cabin, To Kill A Mockingbird, and, yes, The Help all have several important things in common: They were and are bestsellers and widely read. They were written by white people. They are about black people. They tell inaccurate stories. Have you read any books about the black experience by any black authors? This is an important question to ask yourself. If the answer is nay, you should remedy this, quickly, lest you be too quick to praise The Help for letting you in on how things "really were".
Works Cited:
Morrison, Toni. Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination. Vintage Books, 1993.
Hansberry, Lorraine. A Raisin in the Sun. Signet Books, 1992.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Becoming: The Chick Inside
This evening I bring to you another quote from Moby Dick, and no, it has nothing, or at least very little, to do with environmentalism. It's an unlikely quote. But after I read it I stopped. I tried to move on but I couldn't. The quote is this:
"D'ye mark him, Flask?" whispered Stubb; "the chick that's in him pecks the shell. 'Twill soon be out."
Unlikely, right? Stubb is, after all, speaking conspiratorially to Flask about Ahab's mentally and socially disturbed behavior. But read it again, the way that I couldn't help but read it:
"The chick that's in [you] pecks the shell. 'Twill soon be out."
What an amazing metaphor, isn't it? The concept of becoming who you are meant to be isn't a fairytale for the young; it is a construct for what human existence can really mean. We can constantly be reborn; be transformed. And, most exciting of all, sometimes we can feel or hear that little 'tap tap' from within, letting us know we are on the right track. That we will soon emerge, ready to take on, or gracefully learn how to handle, new experiences.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Moby Dick and Environmentalism
An off-putting title, I know, but Ishmael continues to amaze with his ironic witticisms. Here's one for you:
"But, though the world scouts at us whale hunters, yet does it unwittingly pay us the profoundest homage; yea, an all-abounding adoration! for almost all the tapers, lamps, and candles that burn round the globe, burn, as before so many shrines, to our glory!"
Melville, Herman. Moby Dick. Kindle Version, Location 2132-42.
Whaling must not have been very pretty. According to Ishmael it is a scorned profession, even during Melville's time. Think about those awe-inspiring, mysterious creatures being harpooned to a bloody death, hauled into bay and then chopped into bits for their blubber and meat. For the average civilian it must have been like watching a unicorn getting their horn sawed off to make baby diapers. Alright, perhaps not that bad, but you get the point. Not sure that you get the point?
Okay, the point is what we consume speaks more loudly than the things we supposedly denounce. Don't like oil spills? Don't like pollution? So what? Am I sounding preachy? I don't mean to be. Consuming resources, like it or not, is a part of human life. But being human also means that we can do the following: We can consume less. We can consume responsibly. We can be less hypocritical about our choices. These are all things you've heard before (I hope). Interestingly, these are things I wasn't planning on learning from Moby Dick. Thanks for reading.
"But, though the world scouts at us whale hunters, yet does it unwittingly pay us the profoundest homage; yea, an all-abounding adoration! for almost all the tapers, lamps, and candles that burn round the globe, burn, as before so many shrines, to our glory!"
Melville, Herman. Moby Dick. Kindle Version, Location 2132-42.
Whaling must not have been very pretty. According to Ishmael it is a scorned profession, even during Melville's time. Think about those awe-inspiring, mysterious creatures being harpooned to a bloody death, hauled into bay and then chopped into bits for their blubber and meat. For the average civilian it must have been like watching a unicorn getting their horn sawed off to make baby diapers. Alright, perhaps not that bad, but you get the point. Not sure that you get the point?
Okay, the point is what we consume speaks more loudly than the things we supposedly denounce. Don't like oil spills? Don't like pollution? So what? Am I sounding preachy? I don't mean to be. Consuming resources, like it or not, is a part of human life. But being human also means that we can do the following: We can consume less. We can consume responsibly. We can be less hypocritical about our choices. These are all things you've heard before (I hope). Interestingly, these are things I wasn't planning on learning from Moby Dick. Thanks for reading.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Off the Shelf: A Woman's Path
Lately I've felt really drawn to female-driven narratives. Memoir has never been one of my favorite genres, but I find myself picking up and exploring more women's memoirs than ever before. This particular book, which I picked up at Pioneer Books (of course), was a delightful surprise, and the premise is one that I resist and embrace at the same time, if such a thing is even possible. It is simply this:
"In the act of moving from one place to another, somehow a space is created where, if we're lucky, a moment of clarity alights on us and offers a window into our natures, and the nature of everything around us. . . .the act of travel is a potent way indeed of calling forth that inner knowledge. To relearn what we already know on the deepest level; to wake up to it and allow it to change us. Such is the power of the spiritual journey" (xvi).
So now you know the premise, but what is this book exactly? It's a compilation of essays and book excerpts written by women who encountered some sort of enlightening, spiritual experience while they were in the act of moving from one place to another. It has some big names like Maya Angelou, Anne Lamott and Diane Ackerman, but there are some less-known women, and to be honest, I found some of their stories the more compelling and personally applicable.
In many of these essays, the writers were searching for closure or healing. Some were searching for an essential, but missing, part of themselves. Others were just going on with their normal lives and had an unwelcome and surprising epiphany. Two different women found themselves volunteering at two different centers of Mother Teresa's around the world. Another was fleeing from America and the racism she encountered there only to realize that "Expatriation is an unacceptable way for me to respond to the agony of racism. There is no physical place I can go to escape human suffering--my own or anyone else's. There are no untroubled countries. However, as the result of traveling my inner roads, following my dreams and intuitive leanings, I now know that I can be transported to a place of peace. . . .That sacred place of inner calm is my home in the world. It must travel with me wherever I go" (184).
These are wise words for any woman. We must create a home within. Just because no one else can do it for us, however, doesn't mean we do it by ourselves. For this woman it meant discovering the music cherished by her ancestors; for others it could be a beloved friend or mentor; a religious leader; Jesus. The point is, we're not alone, even if the work we do is ours to do.
As I said, I embrace the idea of travel as a means of spiritual awakening while simultaneously pushing against it. How and Why? I personally feel that travel can be an enormous source of enlightenment for many, but it's not a cure-all. The idea that everyone should abandon everything to go and "find themselves" is rather suspect. Wherever you go, there you are and that's a fact. I suppose this is the same reason I resist Elizabeth Gilbert's style of self-discovery ala Eat Pray Love. It's just not do-able or desirable for every woman.
At the same time, however, I do think that opening oneself to the unexperienced may just be part of a formula for enlightened transformation. A favorite quote in the book is "A woman's path need not always take her many miles from home. It will, however, always invite her to let go of where she's been, and to be open to the Mystery of where she's going. Grace will be her guide and will ask her to trust in her own wisdom. In this way, a woman's path will invariably lead her back to her true self, and no path is ever more valuable than this" (58).
I've told you what I think, but what do you think? Do you buy any of this? Have you ever personally experienced a moment of such transformation, whether it was on the other side of the world or a few miles from your own home, or even in your own home? Please share.
Editors: McCauley, Lucy, Amy G. Carlson, Jennifer Leo. A Woman's Path. Traveler's Tales, Inc. 2000.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Co-ops, Libraries and Updates
This morning we went and picked up produce from our first food co-op. I don't think I'll ever go back to regular grocery shopping again. We went through Bountiful Baskets, which operates all over Utah and the Western U.S.
We're still trying to figure out what to do with the Jerusalem artichokes we got. At first we thought it was a heap of ginger root, only after we started peeling it for dinner did we realize how wrong we were. What a bunch of city slickers! We had the cabbage for dinner tonight in a stir fry with chicken and ginger (real ginger, I promise). Nothing like a food co-op to get you exploring new yummy recipes.
Next on the to-do list: library book sale. I mostly go for the amazing, fantastic prices on kid's books, but I won't say no to the incredible find for myself as well. I bought four books for $2. Not bad at all. Derrick's finds were a bit more eclectic, but really, who doesn't need Chinese and German dictionaries?
I actually took these pictures Thursday, but they're so cute I couldn't resist sneaking them in this post.
Thanks for the hat, Nana!
As for updates, I went and got my first iron infusion Monday and felt more energetic for the next few days than I have in months. However, yesterday I began to feel tired again and so I can't wait to go in Tuesday for my next iron fix. Hopefully a few more times will get me up to where I need to be. I appreciate everyone's concern after my last post.
We're still trying to figure out what to do with the Jerusalem artichokes we got. At first we thought it was a heap of ginger root, only after we started peeling it for dinner did we realize how wrong we were. What a bunch of city slickers! We had the cabbage for dinner tonight in a stir fry with chicken and ginger (real ginger, I promise). Nothing like a food co-op to get you exploring new yummy recipes.
Next on the to-do list: library book sale. I mostly go for the amazing, fantastic prices on kid's books, but I won't say no to the incredible find for myself as well. I bought four books for $2. Not bad at all. Derrick's finds were a bit more eclectic, but really, who doesn't need Chinese and German dictionaries?
I actually took these pictures Thursday, but they're so cute I couldn't resist sneaking them in this post.
Thanks for the hat, Nana!
As for updates, I went and got my first iron infusion Monday and felt more energetic for the next few days than I have in months. However, yesterday I began to feel tired again and so I can't wait to go in Tuesday for my next iron fix. Hopefully a few more times will get me up to where I need to be. I appreciate everyone's concern after my last post. Saturday, February 5, 2011
A Perfect Saturday
Life has been pretty crazy lately. Some unpleasant circumstances have arisen, along with everything else both Derrick and I are already immersed in. Hey, life happens--and everyone needs to have fun sometimes to just shake things off, laugh about crap, and move on.
So today we concocted the perfect plan to celebrate our own, nerdy version of fun. We started the day out with gluten-free crepes. We then decided to make a visit to Pioneer Books, our absolute favorite bookstore in the area (maybe of all time...?). Wrangling the baby can be a challenge, so we decided I'd take her for the first half hour while Derrick perused the shelves and then we'd switch. Much to my dismay, Squirty was much more interested in doing this:
and this...
and this...
than this:
So we spent our time playing peekaboo instead of reading. She also spent a good deal of time chasing down and demanding attention from Daddy, even when it was my shift (sorry, honey!).
But he didn't seem to mind too much:
I'm just crazy about this bookstore. The prices are fantastic and their selection often surprising (in a good way). I always end up buying more than I should.
I bought this glorious stack of books. You might notice that all the books in the pile I bought either have "woman/women" in the title, are written by women, or are about women. Is a bias emerging? I don't think so. I have plenty of books by/about men on my reading list, never fear. 
Unfortunately, part of our "fun plan" didn't hash out. We'd planned on going to see this movie at BYU's International Cinema, but Squirty and I were just too worn out to go. So we all took some much-needed naps, read, ate dinner and went to Megamind at the dollar theater a little later instead. Squirty performed admirably and sat on Daddy's lap most of the time (with a pudgy hand in the popcorn and package of Swedish Fish, of course). 
So today we concocted the perfect plan to celebrate our own, nerdy version of fun. We started the day out with gluten-free crepes. We then decided to make a visit to Pioneer Books, our absolute favorite bookstore in the area (maybe of all time...?). Wrangling the baby can be a challenge, so we decided I'd take her for the first half hour while Derrick perused the shelves and then we'd switch. Much to my dismay, Squirty was much more interested in doing this:
and this...and this...
than this:So we spent our time playing peekaboo instead of reading. She also spent a good deal of time chasing down and demanding attention from Daddy, even when it was my shift (sorry, honey!).But he didn't seem to mind too much:I'm just crazy about this bookstore. The prices are fantastic and their selection often surprising (in a good way). I always end up buying more than I should.I bought this glorious stack of books. You might notice that all the books in the pile I bought either have "woman/women" in the title, are written by women, or are about women. Is a bias emerging? I don't think so. I have plenty of books by/about men on my reading list, never fear. Unfortunately, part of our "fun plan" didn't hash out. We'd planned on going to see this movie at BYU's International Cinema, but Squirty and I were just too worn out to go. So we all took some much-needed naps, read, ate dinner and went to Megamind at the dollar theater a little later instead. Squirty performed admirably and sat on Daddy's lap most of the time (with a pudgy hand in the popcorn and package of Swedish Fish, of course). Thank goodness for "fundays"!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Alright, so I'm a Materialist
...but I want this car SO BAD!
Maybe I'll convince Derrick, once the Hyundai exhales its last shaky breath, to use it as a commuter vehicle. On weekends when he's not looking I'll go joy-riding. Tee-hee!
In other news, I finished reading Paul Tough's Whatever It Takes, a book I will constantly reference in a search to understand education, inner-city poverty and parenting. Though it sounds unlikely, it was the most riveting collection of studies done on the three issues stated above I've ever read. Honestly. Riveting.
My next bit of fun reading will be this book:
Thanks for the loan, Lindsay!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Some Thoughts on Reading
Last year in my Women's Studies in Literature class, I encountered this delightful little book, The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett. Now one of my favorite books, this novella chronicles a satirical and fictional account of Elizabeth II and her newfound obsession: reading.
In his novella, Bennett explores a most important question: what does it mean to be a great reader of fiction? There are, after all, different types of readers: indifferent, pleasure-seeking, casual, or, as the Queen becomes, great.
So what marks up these differences? The book provides an example I've noted abundantly in my own experience. Norman, the Queen's amanuensis, is a great companion for her, at least initially. When she begins her journey into the literary world, Norman provides encouragement and friendship. And yet when Norman is dismissed and enters school, the Queen must admit that she feels she "was outgrowing him...or rather, out-reading him." Much of this is due to the fact that Norman reads "purely for pleasure, not enlightenment, though part of the pleasure was enlightenment, he could see that." So what does this mean, this pleasure-seeking? The Queen acknowledges that "Norman's preferences could sometimes be suspect. Other things being equal he still tended to prefer gay authors, hence her aquaintance with Genet." Thus Norman, who is coincidentally gay, seeks above all to reinforce his own particular paradigm. No one can deny that having one's own paradigm bolstered is, after all, rather pleasurable. But still, literature deserves to be taken more seriously than this.
The Queen, however, tends to reject such biases in her reading. The one exception to this rule is her abstinence from fantasy and her decision to save Harry Potter "for a rainy day." Funnily, I have acquaintances of my own that read Harry Potter, The Chronicles of Narnia and Tolkein, but little else. This reveals a pronounced bias on their part. After all, these books conveniently lend themselves to a binary good-versus-evil, everything-turns-out-alright-in-the-end view of the world. The subject matter they explore is limited, and honestly, not that applicable to most people in most situations, white Mormon middle-class notwithstanding.
The professor who introduced The Uncommon Reader to me also related a funny story about two elderly women she knew who would read Gone with the Wind over and over again. Once they finished, they started it afresh. It drove my professor, and pretty much everyone else who knew them, crazy. But who could blame them? They were devoted heart and soul to a book that not only painted a nostalgic view of the world as it once had been, but it also contained racial codes that they could actually understand and relate to.
Thus, to be a great or uncommon reader as Alan Bennett would put it, we are beholden to sometimes put ourselves in contact with books that soften our paradigms rather than bolster them. I feel this is true regardless of the paradigm, though I too have to measure my reading material guardedly. On my book shelves you're just as likely to see Conservative mainstays (Edmund Burke, Adam Smith and James Madison) as Liberal bestsellers (Dreams from My Father, The Audacity of Hope, The End of Poverty), and yet what books I actually read reveals what paradigm I'm trying to support. So, I try to vary things a bit. Even on my much-neglected poli-blog, my articles take equal turns going after liberals and conservatives. Having forayed for some time in books with a leftist bias, I plan to venture into some Ayn Rand in the near future.
Biases are difficult to avoid, but the main message here is that if we want to be great readers we need to be conscientious of them and try our best to avoid them by challenging ourselves with reading materials that fail to enforce our adopted paradigms. Otherwise we succeed only in entertaining ourselves towards a complacent intellectual and moral stupor.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
A Genetic Trait, or just a Nerdy Inheritance?
I have several posts awaiting 'publication', but I thought I'd give this one preference because it will be fast. Something I always loved about my dad growing up is the way he would walk to and from work. He probably only drove a handful of times. Mostly he did it for exercise, but I also think it was his "quiet time". Every time I watched for my dad to come around the bend, he did so with some kind of reading in his hand. I sort of picked up the habit too because it helped the time pass by so much more quickly as I walked to school. I was mocked a bit for it, but that didn't keep me from doing it. Besides, I did (and still do) think it takes a certain amount of talent to keep your nose in a book and avoid running into things, a talent I'm rather proud of.
This summer I enjoyed riding my bike to school because it cut down on time, but this week I've revisited my old habit and have been shocked by how much reading material I can cover in the two 15-20 minute walks to class and back. I finished Song of Solomon much more quickly than I had anticipated and now I'm dedicating my walks to a bit of fun reading, Whatever It Takes.
So this post is for you, Dad, but also for all those nerds who just like to keep their nose in a book.
This summer I enjoyed riding my bike to school because it cut down on time, but this week I've revisited my old habit and have been shocked by how much reading material I can cover in the two 15-20 minute walks to class and back. I finished Song of Solomon much more quickly than I had anticipated and now I'm dedicating my walks to a bit of fun reading, Whatever It Takes.So this post is for you, Dad, but also for all those nerds who just like to keep their nose in a book.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens: of the need for female mentors
Alice Walker, famous author of The Color Purple and Pulitzer Prize winner, had a problem. Before she had won that well-earned Pulitzer, she faced an existential crises of sorts. Her way out? A much-needed mentor. She begins her essay, "In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens" thus:
"I became aware of my need of Zora Neale Hurston's work some time before I knew her work existed."
But it wasn't just Hurston's work Walker needed, it was Hurston herself. Attempting to research "voodoo practices among rural Southern blacks of the thirties" for a story, she discovered that there seemed to be little to no research she could trust. "A number of white, racist anthropologists and folklorists of the period had, not surprisingly, disappointed and insulted me. They thought blacks inferior, peculiar, and comic, and for me this undermined, no, destroyed, the relevance of their books."
How fortunate that she then came across Zora Neale Hurston's book, Mules and Men. Hurston, trained at Barnard College, was an anthropologist and a respected writer interested in black life in the American South. "Because she immersed herself in her own culture even as she recorded its 'big old lies,' i.e., folk tales, it was possible to see how she and it. . .fit together." Walker was soothed by Hurston's "assurance that she was exposing not simply an adequate culture but a superior one. That black people can be on occasion peculiar and comic was knowledge she enjoyed. That they could be racially or culturally inferior to whites never seems to have crossed her mind." In short, Zora Neale Hurston provided Alice Walker with the confidence and inspiration to pursue her then-current direction. Walker wanted to be a great African-American writer and she is.
Like Walker's unexpected but welcome discovery of Hurston, I began to discover a need for Laurel Thatcher Ulrich before I knew who she was. I was a little familiar with her work. After all, I had purchased her book, A Midwife's Tale, more intrigued by the title and the fact that it had also won a Pulitzer than by Ulrich's personal story, of which I knew nothing. It wasn't until I had purchased a second book, Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History, and began to read that I thought she might be the mentor I had been in search of. Reading in the introduction, Ulrich reveals a little of her own story:
"I was not only a thirty-six-year-old housewife enrolled in a graduate seminar in early American history. I was a thiry-six-year-old wife and mother who with a handful of friends in the Boston area had helped to found an independent periodical devoted to the "twin platforms of Mormonism and feminism."
Obviously, this unexpected interest of hers in Mormonism intrigued me. She continues, "Both 'isms' mattered: despite my flirtation with the women's movement, I too went to church even when it snowed." So I looked her up on (where else?) Wikipedia. Guess what? She's an active member of the Mormon church, teaches institute in Cambridge, and has an illustrious position in Harvard's history department. She's also a self-identified mormon and feminist. Fancy that. When I read about her that day, my eyes watered with gratitude and relief. No joke.
"I became aware of my need of Zora Neale Hurston's work some time before I knew her work existed."
But it wasn't just Hurston's work Walker needed, it was Hurston herself. Attempting to research "voodoo practices among rural Southern blacks of the thirties" for a story, she discovered that there seemed to be little to no research she could trust. "A number of white, racist anthropologists and folklorists of the period had, not surprisingly, disappointed and insulted me. They thought blacks inferior, peculiar, and comic, and for me this undermined, no, destroyed, the relevance of their books."
How fortunate that she then came across Zora Neale Hurston's book, Mules and Men. Hurston, trained at Barnard College, was an anthropologist and a respected writer interested in black life in the American South. "Because she immersed herself in her own culture even as she recorded its 'big old lies,' i.e., folk tales, it was possible to see how she and it. . .fit together." Walker was soothed by Hurston's "assurance that she was exposing not simply an adequate culture but a superior one. That black people can be on occasion peculiar and comic was knowledge she enjoyed. That they could be racially or culturally inferior to whites never seems to have crossed her mind." In short, Zora Neale Hurston provided Alice Walker with the confidence and inspiration to pursue her then-current direction. Walker wanted to be a great African-American writer and she is.
Like Walker's unexpected but welcome discovery of Hurston, I began to discover a need for Laurel Thatcher Ulrich before I knew who she was. I was a little familiar with her work. After all, I had purchased her book, A Midwife's Tale, more intrigued by the title and the fact that it had also won a Pulitzer than by Ulrich's personal story, of which I knew nothing. It wasn't until I had purchased a second book, Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History, and began to read that I thought she might be the mentor I had been in search of. Reading in the introduction, Ulrich reveals a little of her own story:
"I was not only a thirty-six-year-old housewife enrolled in a graduate seminar in early American history. I was a thiry-six-year-old wife and mother who with a handful of friends in the Boston area had helped to found an independent periodical devoted to the "twin platforms of Mormonism and feminism."
Obviously, this unexpected interest of hers in Mormonism intrigued me. She continues, "Both 'isms' mattered: despite my flirtation with the women's movement, I too went to church even when it snowed." So I looked her up on (where else?) Wikipedia. Guess what? She's an active member of the Mormon church, teaches institute in Cambridge, and has an illustrious position in Harvard's history department. She's also a self-identified mormon and feminist. Fancy that. When I read about her that day, my eyes watered with gratitude and relief. No joke.
-
Her balance more than anything else is incredible to me. Embracing not only feminist ideology and an active church membership, but also a career and family makes her a wonderwoman in my eyes. But, like Alice Walker, who never met Hurston (who had died years before, buried in a pauper's grave Walker found and decorated with a gravestone), I may never meet Ulrich, having moved away from the Boston area unaware of her existence. We may go back, at which time Ulrich and I will become bosom friends. (hollow laughter) But until then, I'm just grateful to know about her, read about her and read from her.
-
Walker and I had different backgrounds, experiences and interests that led us to our need for additional feminine support and validation. Walker was a southern black woman who wanted to be a writer, I'm a mormon white woman who also desires something outside of the established norm. However, I think the differences between us are irrelevant; we found what we needed, after all.
-
So I'm curious. What mentors have you needed or found? Why and how?
Monday, February 8, 2010
Pathological
Pathological:
1. Of or relating to pathology.
2. Relating to or caused by disease.
3. Of, relating to, or manifesting behavior that is habitual, maladaptive, and compulsive
2. Relating to or caused by disease.
3. Of, relating to, or manifesting behavior that is habitual, maladaptive, and compulsive
Perhaps some of you are tired of hearing about our love of books (I don't really care). But to be honest, we're both in school and Derrick does a lot of reading for his job, so in providing updates about our life we basically have to admit that reading is our life right now. Luckily, you won't find either one of us complaining. You might say, actually, that our reading is pathological. As is our constant search for "our" bookstore. Everywhere we've ever lived (or visit) we try to find the bookstore in the area that we love. We've found one in Mesa, a few in Boston, one in St. George and now we've found one here. "Pioneer Book" might not be much of a name for a bookstore, but let me tell you, this place is amazing. Great prices, tons of books, many genres and, an often overlooked detail but one we've come to appreciate, an owner that actually likes books. Go figure.
This is the stack of books I'll be tackling soon.
Some of these are for my classes, but
most of them are treasures I've picked up as
we've searched for the perfect bookstore.
Aren't they beautiful?
Chocolat is a little treat (no pun intended) that I'm
giving myself as I wait between books for my classes.
The Uncommon Reader is a book that I actually am assigned
for one of my classes but that Derrick and I are reading together.
We're nerdy like that, and we've been that way
since before we got married.
So what do we do besides read, you might wonder? Hmm...well right now I have the family involved in a little project that I'm so excited for. My Great-Aunt Irene has been gracious enough to let me use the planters in her backyard this spring/summer for our garden. She's been really sweet about it, though she does think I'm a little crazy for digging through the snow to lay out compost. Actually, she thinks I'm more than a little crazy, but she appreciates my enthusiasm none the less. So what you see on our front porch is an old milk carton and a bucket with rotting vegetable matter that I haven't hauled up to her place yet. Our neighbors just love it. We save potato peels, apple peels and cores, egg shells, zucchini ends, and basically any raw vegetable material we would throw away anyway.
But whenever we get a moment for all three of us to get together we mostly just relax and enjoy each other's company, watching movies, cuddling, going on walks and talking. Derrick has such a busy schedule all week, and I have busier nights now with class and Hunger Banquet club meetings, that we truly savor our time together, mostly on weekends. Savoring the moment...
And the Squirt?
She's as cute as ever, eating and enjoying finger foods, and now moving to just one nap a day (much to our dismay. Hey, she's cute, but she's even cuter when she's asleep).
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