tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38787230127271364022024-03-12T16:01:09.843-07:00The Chantelbury TalesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-18575418067430083912022-10-17T07:14:00.006-07:002022-10-17T09:33:29.379-07:00My Thoughts on Grief and Loss: 25 Years after My Father's Death25 years ago today, my father was eating lunch at a busy Downtown Dallas restaurant. He had finished eating his crawfish étouffée and was in the middle of telling a joke. Before he could get to the punchline, he slumped over, hit his head on the table next to him, and fell to the floor - his secretary would hurt her wrist trying to break his fall.<p>It was October 17, 1997. After almost 20 minutes of nurses performing CPR on him, an ambulance showed up to take him to the hospital. But it was too late. My father had died of a massive heart attack. </p><p>He was 54. <br /></p><p>It's hard to believe that my father has now been out of my life the same length of time as
he was in it. I find myself in a similar space that I did on the morning I was writing his eulogy at my parents' kitchen counter: I am at a loss for what to say. For how to acknowledge this day. For how to own and speak my truth about the many ways his loss changed the trajectory of my life. Of who I would become. And how the trauma of that day shaped who I am.</p><p>I think the best way I can honor not only his memory, but also where I am 25 years later, is to reflect on what I've learned about grief. And what I'm still learning about how I want to live my life.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLLTksHvfyn9QrQ-A25LgFiD5nGpVakaq2Pw4Mq58Kec5SD58M6lUUldnkoc-a3TmvJ-GwvI1usHbI0GEeHJJ7GLCiZZQYbAbyG96y4L3GxNG4A5dNIOm_E5jEJnpKiIkPzfRoKRH2TF6trB391g4Nvu_GV0WvGp04u8ltCZaScLkJugnbegC7an1/s358/IMG_2168.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="358" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLLTksHvfyn9QrQ-A25LgFiD5nGpVakaq2Pw4Mq58Kec5SD58M6lUUldnkoc-a3TmvJ-GwvI1usHbI0GEeHJJ7GLCiZZQYbAbyG96y4L3GxNG4A5dNIOm_E5jEJnpKiIkPzfRoKRH2TF6trB391g4Nvu_GV0WvGp04u8ltCZaScLkJugnbegC7an1/s320/IMG_2168.heic" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><b>1. Give yourself permission to heal.</b></p><p>People often want to know a time frame for when it won't hurt so much after a sudden loss. Trust me, I know how indescribable that pain is and how you just want it to go away. I wish I could say it will only hurt for "x" amount of time. What I can say with certainty is that it <i>does</i> get better if you to allow yourself the time to heal. Be kind to yourself in these moments. There is no guidebook for how to work your way through loss - I mean, there are books upon books about grief (believe me, I got most of them after my dad died). None of those helped me. What did help me was just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep showing up each day. Some days even that will be unbearable. Some days just getting up and getting dressed will be all you can give. And that's okay. Don't hide from the grief. You may want to find ways to escape it, but you can't. Believe me, I tried. But I think that because I faced it head on, I'm in a better place today. Little things that helped me through was finding ways to get my mind off of the loss. That will be unique to whatever you find comfort in. For me, I continued to teach, I took up painting, and I wrote. I also found a local grief support group, which reminded me that I was not alone (and I am still dear friends with a couple of those people who are now more like family). And if you need to move and start over, that's okay, too. I left to live in the country with my dad's family for 7 years, and it was the best thing I ever did for myself - and in the middle of all that, I went back to school for creative writing. So much good came from so much loss and grief - we just have to be open to exploring the roads that healing wants to take us on.<br /></p><p><b> 2. Listen to those closest to you.</b></p><p>I can say this with 100% certainty: my friends and my dad's family saved my life. Literally. I was so engulfed in my grief that I couldn't see a way out. Year 2 became 3 and I didn't know if I would ever feel normal again. One night I was alone in my apartment and was struggling to get through another day. I called one of my closest friends. After giving me the space to share my feelings, she told me, "It's time you get on medication. You take medicine when you're sick, right? This isn't any different." A light bulb went off. This was the answer I was looking for. I thought it was a weakness that somehow I couldn't get through the loss. But my brain was (and is) just wired differently. I suffer from anxiety and depression and that combined with a tragic loss was the recipe for disaster. I think people have a different relationship with mental health now than
they did 25 years ago (at least I hope that's the case, because it
should be). I sought out the treatment that was right for me until I was able to get through the hardest parts of the loss, and then, I could see it through un-medicated when the time was right for me. It's not the answer for everyone, but it kept me from self-harm or turning to drugs or alcohol or other ways of escape - and I've seen many fall down that dark path. I hope you have people in your life who will call it as they see it. And if you don't, I'm here to tell you, it's okay to seek help so you can learn to live again. </p><p><b>3. Grief hits at unexpected times.</b></p><p>I've heard people say that they didn't see it coming. They'll be walking through a grocery store, and all of a sudden in the middle of the pasta aisle, they'll start crying. They feel ashamed, embarrassed, or at a loss. This is completely normal. I've been walking across my college campus where I teach and seen fathers with their daughters on Parents Weekend and had to stop and catch my breath. Just two years ago, in fact, I had one of the hardest moments I've experienced in quite some time. I was going in for a follow up mammogram after a suspicious area had been detected (thankfully, it turned out just to be dense tissue). When the elevator doors opened, I saw a crowd of people surrounding a man on the floor. They were doing CPR on him, and the defibrillator was giving automated commands. My own heart started to race like it was trying to beat for him. I was pulled off to the side of the check-in desk and asked to take a seat. That seat was in direct line with the dead man's face. I began to cry. A woman handed me a Kleenex box and asked me if I was okay. I said, "That's how my dad died." She pulled me into another room to wait for my mammogram. I later called my friend to tell her what I had just seen. How I had always imagined how people reacted to seeing my own father dead in a public space. How those nurses in that restaurant also tried to keep him alive by doing compressions on his chest. And in that moment, my friend told me that now I can see how that moment really looked. People weren't just crowding around pointing or staring coldly at him. Some may have been praying. Some may have been crying. Some may have simply left the room and recounted the story of what they saw. But amid the chaos, there was love in there, too. I went home and thought of that man and his family. I wondered if he made it out alive. And if he didn't, I wished him and his family peace before I went to bed. Because I finally felt a sense of my own peace and had a new narrative to tell myself of what that day in the restaurant looked like for my own father.</p><p>Grief happens at unexpected times, and you won't always be prepared for when it does. And it's okay. Allow yourself permission to feel those feelings. Then take breathe, take a walk, call a friend, get some rest. And give yourself credit for getting through another day. Tomorrow is a new one, and it won't always be as hard as the one before.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5iPDegqF7jxQwPej1Cgv4YDW67fQ8HlYB9TS3pt1Km96YpBbcXZfZjiZo7zk7-eBROEEjXiRMwI2kGniZr-PH3dm9HkYaSv9GB_cKoiwFSuXKO0Agty7k8-JhTjAr0hTP4GuJy2PisIPtDVgigukE5yc4nmnHoohJN1aOe-8EQvXnPk75-UznhtV/s480/IMG_2169.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5iPDegqF7jxQwPej1Cgv4YDW67fQ8HlYB9TS3pt1Km96YpBbcXZfZjiZo7zk7-eBROEEjXiRMwI2kGniZr-PH3dm9HkYaSv9GB_cKoiwFSuXKO0Agty7k8-JhTjAr0hTP4GuJy2PisIPtDVgigukE5yc4nmnHoohJN1aOe-8EQvXnPk75-UznhtV/s320/IMG_2169.heic" width="320" /></a></div><p><b>4. Don't get lost in your grief.</b></p><p>The hardest part for me over the years has been to see people who never moved forward with their lives after a tragic loss. To be clear, that loss will always be a part of you, and I can't say how one should or shouldn't grieve. But for me, if I were still in the same space in my life that I was 25, 15, or even 10 years ago, it would truly make me have a sense of regret. I am now only 4 years away from the age my father was when he died, and the best way I can honor him is to live my life the most completely and truthfully and fully as I can. To live a life he was never able to see through to old age. Trust me, this is a work in progress. I know what I need to do, but I have to remind myself almost daily. For me that's trying not to get stressed over small things. Not to work myself to death. Remember to give myself time at the end of the day to notice how the grass feels between my toes, how the dove sounds in the backyard maple tree, how the wind feels on my face as summer turns to fall. </p><p>One of my favorite lessons came when I was moving back to Texas after being with my dad's family for 7 years. I was behind the wheel of a U-Haul truck, and before I could even
get down the road from my rental home, I started to cry. My cell phone
rang, and it was my friend Jake. I told him I didn't know if I could
do this. I didn't know if I could face what was ahead of me. He said,
"All you have to think about right now is driving forward." It has
become a motto for how I live my life during stressful times that I
don't think I can get through. But the truth is, I have. And I will
continue to do so.</p><p><b>5. Share your story, and allow other survivors to share theirs.</b></p><p>Less than two weeks after my dad died, I was back teaching middle school. I walked into the school cafeteria during lunch and sat down with my colleagues. Everyone looked at me and stopped talking. The rest of the lunch period we all sat in silence. I felt like a spotlight was on me, and that I was the one who was supposed to know how to give voice to my grief. Please know, it's okay to talk about grief and to let people share stories about their loved ones. It's also okay when one of your friends asks how she can help, and because you don't have the words, she'll just sit with you in that moment. I think people worry that they won't say the right thing or think it will be too painful to bring up the loss. But honestly, it's already on our minds. It's not like you'll say, "I'm sorry about your dad," and I will have forgotten that he just died. Sharing memories, talking about them, trying to give voice to your feelings helps us heal. It still does. And I continue to hear how important this is to people who have suffered tragic losses in their lives. Yes, my grief support friend and I have cried in the middle of a restaurant while trying to eat our pancakes as we shared our pain and how we'd overcome it. That's okay. And yes, that same friend sent me flowers for my 50th birthday and I was so overcome with emotion, I cried in the middle of my party. It reminded me that my dad didn't live to see that day, or my wedding day, or get to meet my husband and his two kids. And that's okay, too. Because in the end, all that matters is that you made it. <i>I</i> made it. I survived a tragic loss and I'm here writing about it. </p><p>I'm not sure what else I'll do today to honor my father's memory. Maybe I'll go to the cemetery and stand in that open field and feel the breeze to remind myself I'm still alive. And maybe that's enough.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWgV8-hdMiONqBvmqHGYmj5KAmANLLXylMak8lQTC1NlGJuwUyJTM8syo1mGLA8bytBLXurn5PPpKE5tCmhr3UKEEliU0mb_CklAKnnDN1rslRG6ZKQLuMMR366Q2fUSWUtJNIKuGuajiBoW2lDfmR6T6lk9HwAyAAcma43cdR04vPzdl-BvN0YG4/s960/dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="960" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWgV8-hdMiONqBvmqHGYmj5KAmANLLXylMak8lQTC1NlGJuwUyJTM8syo1mGLA8bytBLXurn5PPpKE5tCmhr3UKEEliU0mb_CklAKnnDN1rslRG6ZKQLuMMR366Q2fUSWUtJNIKuGuajiBoW2lDfmR6T6lk9HwAyAAcma43cdR04vPzdl-BvN0YG4/s320/dad.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-8576324193226055772018-05-14T10:47:00.001-07:002018-05-14T10:50:57.145-07:00The Virtual Rabbit Hole<div class="MsoNormal">
I recently found myself falling down the social media rabbit
hole…again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It starts simple enough:
I’ve been teaching for five hours and get home exhausted, and I’m looking to
unwind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The house is quiet, I’m stuck on
the couch with sore legs, and I grab my iPad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A couple of hours later, I’ve watched countless YouTube videos, scrolled
through Facebook, checked and responded to emails from students and colleagues,
returned to Facebook to see what I missed…you know the drill.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But one night I stumbled across an article talking about how
social media can “kill” creativity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
in that same week I read that The Roots’ drummer, Questlove, wrote a book about
the same topic (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Creative Quest</i>), as
have countless of other authors (just Google “Can social media kill
creativity?”…but if you get trapped and find yourself reading articles about
green-haired fish becoming extinct, don’t blame me.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The effect social media can have on our lives is nothing new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact I teach a composition
course addressing the various articles regarding social media's addictive impacts on the brain, as well as the positive and negative outcomes that it can have on our relationships with ourselves and others…but what I had failed to
realize was how social media had an impact on my own creative process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the past 11 years I’ve been an Instructor in academia,
which means I’ve taught, to date, roughly 1,800 students (if I add up the amount
I’ve graded, I may cry and retreat to YouTube, so bear with me).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> To say I'm busy during a regular semester is an understatement. But why, then, was I not being more creative over the summer? Part of it was definitely the need to unwind, yes. But d</span>uring that time away I often felt the pressure not
just to write, but to write something “of worth.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These pressures can not only be overwhelming, but they can halt creativity altogether. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I
was struggling to figure out, however, is how the pressures today were
different from when I was in graduate school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was naïve back then, yes, and fearless, but I’ve always faced (harsh) criticism
with an “I’ll show you” mentality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
the past few years have been different, and I was looking for an answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never realized that my retreat into social
media to fill voids could be one of the causes for my creative decline.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone is different in his/her creative process, but when
I started to think about when I’ve been most creative, it’s been in those quiet
moments of boredom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in those moments I would paint or write
or play guitar or draw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wouldn’t
always be anything extraordinary, but at least I was being creative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t think about if someone would “like”
my poem or “love” my painting – I did it because it’s a part of who I am. I need creativity to survive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s the point of all of this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The point is that I’m here writing again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I put down my iPad on the first day of
summer break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And to remind myself that some
days I need to step away from the virtual world and enter the creative one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So if you'll excuse me, it's time to shut down my Mac. There's a poem I need to write.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-23536296607668449442018-04-15T20:00:00.003-07:002018-04-15T20:00:32.780-07:00A Poem for MartheThe Sound of Blue<br />
for Marthe Reed<br />
<br />
Walking through thunder<br />
under a sky<br />
<br />
crying for black to break,<br />
I remember blue -<br />
<br />
azure hues you blew<br />
from your cupped palms<br />
<br />
across the sea<br />
into coils of white foam<br />
<br />
fingers at my feet.<br />
I lean into the sea<br />
<br />
listening to waters hemorrhage<br />
hymns of "she is no longer."<br />
<br />
It begins to rain.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The best way I could think to honor your memory, Marthe, was to write a poem. I hope that wherever you are, you can see the beauty of blue. And memories. And feel the love we are sending you. I'll miss you, my friend. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-33357202104405241332017-05-14T17:43:00.003-07:002017-05-14T17:45:24.538-07:00No Children on Mother's Day? You Are Not Alone.<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: normal;" />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">On this Mother's Day, I find myself closing in on the one-year anniversary of my hysterectomy, and I have yet to really write or talk much about the experience. I actually had plans to blog my way through recovery, but it was a lot more difficult than I anticipated. I ran into some difficulties along the way, but I also found myself overly protective about my body, as well as what I was facing emotionally. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">But on this Mother's Day, I wanted share some of those thoughts, mainly thanks to a couple of Facebook posts, which addressed the fact that, for some, this holiday can be a painful reminder for women who did not necessarily choose not to have kids. What I appreciated most about these posts was simply the recognition that not all holidays are joyous occasions for everyone, and that we should not only be cognizant of that fact, but also, not be afraid to talk about those instances as well. Social media often glorifies our life experiences, which I am all in favor of, but I also think that it needs to be a space open for the realities/challenges of our lives as well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">So with that in mind, I begin...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">Like most young girls, I dreamed of the day that I would have kids of my own, and all the memories you might associate with that: The pregnancy, the middle of the night feedings, the first day of school, the first Christmas, the first overly-frosted sheet cake...maybe an occasional diaper change, but only if I could pull my T-shirt over my face.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: normal;" />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">But as I moved through my 20s and 30s, I realized that having children might never in the cards for me. I slowly began accepting that fact, with the thought of adopting never far from my mind. By the time I met my husband (we married when I was 41), he had two kids of his own, and I was in and out of my doctor's office with severe endometriosis, a "diseased" uterus (my doctor's words), cervix, and ovaries. (I had a cyst so big one time that the tech told me I should name "her." We settled on Celeste.) In fact, t</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">he only ultrasounds I've ever experienced were to check on the (lack of) progress during hormone therapy. One day I even had an expected mother walk over to me </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">in a waiting room full of pregnant mothers </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">and hand me some chocolate . To this day, I wish I had given her a hug and thanked her. We never said a word to one another, but she understood this wasn't a joyful moment for me...how, I'll never fully know. I do know that she made me smile as I watched mothers waiting to find out if they were having a boy or a girl.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">I was so moved that I went home that afternoon and wrote a poem.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Last February, after twenty years of living with this disease, my doctor entered the waiting room and told me, "It's time." I don't regret the decision I made to have a hysterectomy but I still grieved the loss. It wasn't that I still thought I might have kids, but I was letting go of the dream that I had as a young girl. </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">My longing to have children is temporarily filled when my stepchildren are here, but the thought of what might have been creeps in on days like today when social media is flooded with images of daughters and sons embraced in their mother's arms.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">What I've learned over the years, and what I want so share here, is that you should not be made to feel like you can never truly know what "real" love is, or that your life will not be complete because you could not have children. You may lose friends along the way who can no longer "connect" with you -- you who does not understand late night feedings you once dreamed about. However, your real friends will bring you along for the ride and not push you away because of those differences. </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Before my step kids came along, I actually found myself at one of my best friend's houses Trick-or-Treating with her children. I found myself on the playground with students I taught. And when the kids came into my life, I could find joy in reading to my step daughter in bed the night before we had to drive her back home. Is it the same? Of course not. Will you still feel some sadness now and again? Absolutely. A</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">nd that's ok. I think it's normal, actually. What you thought your life would look like does not match up with where you are. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">I found new ways of defining what family could be. And my life is richer for those experiences. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">You may never get to know what being a mother is like, but you can know and experience joy in other ways. Our lives take unique paths and make us who we are, and some decisions are made for us. It's not always what we want, or what we expected, but <i>how</i> we move forward <i>is </i>our decision to make.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">So to those of you who are like me on this Mother's Day, I just wanted to say: You are not alone. </span></span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: normal;" />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: normal;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-63034370424666954782017-01-24T15:22:00.000-08:002017-10-03T07:06:38.612-07:00What's on My Mind: The Social Media Dilemma<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember seeing a show many years ago that talked about
empathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story went as follows:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine that you are in your car, and someone cuts you
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will often react by honking
your horn, yelling obscenities, or feeling angry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now imagine that you are walking down the street, and
someone cuts you off by bumping into you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If the other person apologizes, you continue on your way; no harm, no
foul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If not, you may grumble something
under your breath, but you are less likely to cause a scene or audibly vocalize
your anger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we are in
our cars, we feel a sense of protection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We are yelling at a vehicle, an object.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But when an actual person bumps into us, we are face-to-face with a
human being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are no longer
“protected” by a vehicle, we are forced to look one another in the eye, and,
therefore, more likely to be empathetic to the other person's (unintentional) actions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was reminded of this story as I spent another
day scrolling through my Facebook page. I began to think that this is what’s
happening to us on social media.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are
“protected” in a virtual world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We aren’t
looking people in the face as often when we speak our minds, and, as a result,
we seem to be losing our sense of empathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I know that for many this is nothing new; however, I think we are seeing an increase in the lack of empathy that has been taking place. </span>For example, I stumbled across a political post this morning and clicked
on the comment section, only to see comments quickly becoming verbal attacks,
the argument nowhere to be found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Words
like, “You are disgusting for thinking this,” “You’re a f*ing idiot,” “Why don't you shut the f* up,” etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I wanted to take a break from this, so I went on my neighborhood group page to see what was happening in the neighborhood. I found myself falling further into the rabbit hole.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have often wondered when social media turned into what it
has now become: both an immense connector and divider at the same time (in the words of Jon Stewart). The trend was moving in this direction before
this past year (though many will argue that it has become exacerbated).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps it’s a by-product of our “tell us
what you think” culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps we are
becoming more comfortable with using social media as a platform to express how
we think or feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Nevertheless, w</span>hat is unique to social media is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how </i>we are communicating
our oppositions or disagreements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
past we would sit down, face to face with one another, and express how we felt.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now we are communicating with a computer screen between us, and like
being in the car, there is an inexplicable barrier between “me” and “you” when
people don’t see the way the other does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> the other person
does.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The result?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> V</span>erbal attacks on one another. And when these
attacks happen to my own friends or are attacks on what I fundamentally believe
and hold to be morally and ethically true, I have been hitting three buttons:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfriend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unfollow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Delete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (I do, however, see the inherent danger in doing that as well.) And that has included deleting my own posts -- posts about what I believe in, links with videos supporting those beliefs, articles where I was shaking my head "yes" over and over -- because I didn't want to have to sort and sift through the comments on that particular day. I had had enough. </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Wha</span>t I can’t delete, unfortunately, and
what I can’t ignore is the impact this is having on my understanding of
community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My understanding of
empathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I've found myself repeating in my head, "I wonder what Dad would think. I wonder what my grandparents would say." They've been gone long before social media made its debut. But the reality is, even if they were alive today, we would be having that conversation in person...over "coffee milk" on the front porch.</span><br />
<br />
While I don’t know what to do about
that in a virtual world, I find that I try to leave it as often as I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To reach out to people and meet face to face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> To fight for a cause I think is important. </span>To pick up a poem, a short story, a play and
remember the importance in doing so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But at the end of the day, I still find myself going back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I still long for
the sense of connection, the sense of community that I once found there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it still is there, and I’m just having a hard
time seeing past the cars that continue to cut me off without recognition or acknowledgement
of who I am as a human being.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-58768055373008176102015-07-24T11:21:00.000-07:002015-07-24T11:21:07.180-07:00Je T'aime, LafayetteLast night I found myself up until about 2AM reading news reports and Facebook posts about the shooting in Lafayette, and I have not been able to detach myself from the computer today. Friends and family have all been accounted for, but making sense of it all is far from over. And maybe that's what I'm doing...trying to make some sense from this.<br />
<br />
Lafayette has always been more "home" to me than where I was born. My father's family still resides just south of there where I myself own land, and I would spend my summers on the farm with my grandmother until two years ago when she passed away. When my father died, it was the first place I wanted to be. Because Acadiana is a place unlike anywhere else. I am often reminded of this when I've been away for a while and then walk into an establishment...any establishment...grocery, retail, gas station, bank...I'm not just greeted by a "smile," but by genuine people having genuine conversations. By people who see my maiden name (and know how to spell and pronounce it), ask who my family is, and then proceed to tell me they went to high school, played with, lived down the street from them. <br />
<br />
Lafayette is about community. A group of people who will do anything for each other in times of need. During Hurricanes Rita and Katrina, I remember report after report on the news of someone taking a pirogue down the bayou, tools from the shed, sweat off their backs to help one another. After Lily, my family gathered on our property and cleared trees, fallen branches, and then sat on the porch to drink a beer.<br />
<br />
What hurt me last night is knowing that in a place of hundreds of thousands of people, at least one of my friends would know one of the victims (and, after this morning, I've come to find out the number is quickly rising). Because despite its numbers, Lafayette is a strong community. People know one another. Celebrate one another. Support one another.<br />
<br />
This "man" came in and devastated a town, a community, and today my heart goes out that community I know and love. I know that in the next few days you will be searching for answers, saying your prayers, wondering "why" this had to happen and continues to happen...again...and again...and again. I am searching for those answers myself. <br />
<br />
I know that in the next few days, you will come together as you have done time and time again. In each other's kitchens, under the carport, in the Parc. For those of us who can't be there, our thoughts are with you.<br />
<br />
My heart goes out to you, Acadiana. Stay strong...as you have done time and time again.<br />
<br />
Je T'aime, Lafayette.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-69667369382763215112015-04-16T07:49:00.004-07:002015-04-16T07:49:57.462-07:00Giving New Life to The ExhibitAfter eight years, I have finally decided to brush the dust off my dissertation play, The Exhibit.<br />
<br />
On my way in and out of rehearsals the past several weeks, I was feeling the excitement once again that I had when I first wrote the play. I walked onto the stage to place the charcoals, buttons, fabric, and I questioned why it had taken me so long to step foot on the stage again. But I know the answer. I have just not allowed myself to speak it in public. And with this second life to my first play, it's time.<br />
<br />
Many of you know the story. Many of you will not want to hear it again. Some have their own versions. But this one is mine. And I claim it as my own, in my own words.<br />
<br />
It was a rainy Thursday night back in 2007. My friend and I had just finished up dress rehearsals and were standing outside a diner at 10pm. We noticed how hard it was raining. One of those fast, pouring, Louisiana rains. What I didn't know was that my friend Shelley was on a highway with her visiting friend heading back from a day of sightseeing. What I didn't know is that her car had been hit from behind by an impaired driver going to fast. That the car hit a tree head on. That she died instantly.<br />
<br />
The next day I was teaching my final drama class, and I saw our graduate advisor pacing outside my door. I thought little of it. When I finished my class, she took me around the corner and told me to sit down. She told me that Shelley was dead. <br />
<br />
The next few hours only contain images. Images of her face. Images of standing in the department office. Images of standing in my own office.<br />
<br />
I would later be driven to Shelley's house where her roommates were all gathered from across campus. We sat there in the den. At the kitchen table. Shelley had just made Nanaimo bars. They were still sitting on the table.<br />
<br />
I don't know how much time passed, but I found myself at a table with her roommates, her friends. Her family was flying in for graduation in a few short days. Her classes had to be wrapped up. Her clothes had to be packed up. And we had to face the truth.<br />
<br />
Soon the department head and assistant head were at the table with us. Who could help...who knew where her papers were kept...who would take over the final days of her classes. And then, the topic switched over to the play.<br />
<br />
The play.<br />
<br />
My friend and I were supposed to be in a play that night. We had been rehearsing for about a year. It was one-night only. <br />
<br />
When you hear about playwrights who see their plays as something that becomes a part of them, like an only child, or an appendage, or part of the soul, this is what it meant to this playwright. This director. And we loved and respected her for that.<br />
<br />
But when asked if I could perform that night, I hesitated. I knew what that would mean to the director. I knew, deep down, that this would hurt her. But I also knew that I was hurt. And I asked if I could perform the next night. I needed another day. I couldn't go on.<br />
<br />
That one decision would have major repercussions. The time I needed from the loss of my friend would equate to the loss of several more. It divided the cast in two. I lost my mentor, my friend. People closest to me told me their thoughts and feelings. They told me the other people's responses were selfish. Were irrational. Were to be ignored.<br />
<br />
But the damage was done. To me. To them. And it was exacerbated when I decided, a few days later, to go on with a staged reading of my dissertation, The Exhibit.<br />
<br />
How could I do that? How could I give a reading of my play when I had not done the other one? Meetings were held with the cast without me. My voice was silenced. My story would not be told. The story about how I wanted to do the play the next night. The story about how I didn't go to the department head to "rat" anybody out. The story about how I went in there to talk to her about Shelley's memorial and she closed the door and asked me what was going on with the cast and if we should have a meeting. And how I said I would love that but didn't want to cause anymore trouble. About how I sat in a friend's apartment and cried because the cast met without telling me. Because they were too upset to look at me. To listen to me. To hear me say I was sorry. I was grieving. But they'd say they were, too.<br />
<br />
And I've held onto that story publicly for eight years. And now it's time to let go. Why? Because I need to. I need to honor Shelley, the play, the time I spent with those cast members, my director and mentor, all of whom I loved. And it's time to write drama again. It's time to be on the stage again. Because since that time I have not written a new play. I have not allowed myself to enjoy the stage, a place I know and love.<br />
<br />
I can't go back and undo the past. And, first and foremost, I would undo the loss of Shelley.<br />
<br />
But the losses that I have experienced have made me who I am. Cliche? Perhaps. But it's also true. And the older I get, the more I know this hard truth as well: not everyone will approve of your choices. You lose people you love. Some will come back into your life. Some you will never see again. And that is life.<br />
<br />
But tonight, the show will go on. The lights will come up. My play will find a new voice, new memories.<br />
<br />
And for that, I am thankful. And so, it begins.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-32115677422762289332014-06-24T12:28:00.002-07:002014-07-03T12:23:48.651-07:00Preservation<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stay connected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
feeding Facebook with news-<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
worthy tweets and snapped chats<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
tumbled in an instant…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
forty-three minutes of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
morning scrolling through words<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
scanning phrases so I<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
can move on, move into<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the next and the next and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
stay connected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
is different because<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
he told me to “look up”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
she told me to forget<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my phone, and I’ll see how<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
one generation is <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
not at fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
not a<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
click away from our down-<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rock ‘n roll
still swings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the pendulum and the<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
devil – he never came.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stay with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today I<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
started thinking about<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
grandmother’s rocking chair<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in the kitchen corner<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
coffee in my hand, just<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to make me feel older<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
than single digits, and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
hums from the wall unit<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and gears shifting, never<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
without white noise, never<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
without my grandfather’s<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
garden tomatoes fresh<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from the morning darkness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was thinking about<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my grandmother’s crippled<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
hands holding the wooden<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
spoon, spooning cornbread from<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
mixing bowls and Blackburn’s <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
syrup in mason jars<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sweet as the fig tarts in<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the orange Tupperware<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
there in the middle of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
her kitchen table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
finish conversation<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
just after 10pm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just after I type this<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll update my status<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and make sure that I stay<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
connected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
start<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
thinking about my aunt<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
before cancer erased<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the left half of her side<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
before I lied down in<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the shoulder’s crease when she<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
said she would miss me and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cried until…She sat<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with me in her kitchen<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(bright yellow walls made her<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
happy) and she taught me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
lessons, told me advice,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
forgot time was passing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
past midnight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to remember it all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do remember this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How I learned the meaning<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of being connected –<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the slow turn of her wrist<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
smells of Community<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a steady hum through coils<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
waves of her long, grey hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These memories cannot<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
be deleted or be<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
updated or exceed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the word limit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
are<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what keep me, what shape me,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what I promised you: I<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
won’t stop writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for the women in life<br />
who always stay with me. </div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
**************************<br />
<br />
OLD COPY<br />
<br />
Stay connected. Today</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
updating the Facebook feed or <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
typing Twitter characters until<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what is Upworthy <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
must be shared,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
this album must be liked,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
accept a Friend Request from, who?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Forty-three minutes of morning<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
scanning words <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
glancing phrases <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
so I can move on<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
move into <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the next and the next and…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stay connected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
will be different because <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
he told me to “Look Up”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
she told me to forget my phone<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and I’ll see how that changes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
or rearranges the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not a generation at fault.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not a click away from our downfall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rock ‘n roll still swings the pendulum <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and the devil never came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stay with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started thinking about<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my grandmother’s rocking chair <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
kitchen corner <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
coffee in my hand <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
just enough to make me feel <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
older than single digits <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the hum of a wall unit and the gears shifting<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
never without white noise<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
never without my grandfather’s tomatoes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
fresh from the morning darkness<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
just beyond the utility door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m feeling more connected.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started thinking about <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my grandmother’s crippled hands around <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a wooden spoon spooning cornbread mix<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from the mixing bowl painted with green and red<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and the Blackburn’s syrup in the honey jar<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sweet as fig tarts in the plastic orange Tupperware<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in the middle of the kitchen table<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in the middle of a conversation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just after 10pm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just after I type this <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll update my statuses and iTunes and apps and <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
make sure I stay connected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I started thinking about<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my aunt before cancer erased <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the left half of her body<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
before I lied down in the crease of her shoulder<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and she said she would miss me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and I cried until…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
she sat with me at her kitchen bar<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(bright yellow walls made her happy)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and she taught me lessons and told me advice and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
forgot that time was passing past midnight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted to remember our time<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but all I remember is this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How I learned to stay connected with<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the turn of her wrist<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the smell of Community<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the hum through the coils<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the wave of her long, grey hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These memories cannot be deleted or updated or<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
exceed the word limit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These memories are </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what keep me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what shape me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(what I promised you:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I won’t stop writing).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is for the women in my life who will always<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
stay with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-62492351122395448402014-06-23T11:11:00.001-07:002014-06-23T11:19:55.952-07:00Constructing Memory<br />
<br />
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<br />
Much has been written about how Smart phones, apps, and social media have changed the way that we communicate with one another, and for the past five years, I have been having conversations with Gen Y students in the classroom about these changes. One of the experiments that we do is a social media blackout where the students are asked to abstain from all social media for five days, and I tell them that I will go along for the ride. I give them an assignment that already breaks the rules: I ask that they blog about their social media fast. What continues to be of interest to me is that students rarely realize how much of their day is spent in front of a screen. They don't realize that they've been passing a friend to a class every day for the past few weeks. That they really don't like when someone pulls out a Smart phone during lunch and begins to text. That they've missed the fact that flowers are blooming on campus. And many of them continue the fast to see what life has to offer away from technology. One student recently wrote:<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
These are just some of their observations over the years.<br />
<br />
So, yes, there is an addiction, but it is often an unconscious one. There are debates about what we are "getting" from this new form of communication. I myself am guilty of these behaviors (as much as I hate to admit it). What's the first thing I did when I woke up today? Got coffee? Ate breakfast? Pet the cat? No...I checked Facebook. For 45 minutes.<br />
<br />
We're seeing YouTube videos that tell us to "Look Up..."<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">...or realistic moments about the day "I Forgot My Phone..." (posted on my birthday interestingly enough)...</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">We're even seeing classic poetry being used in Apple commercials (albeit Robin Williams reading of a classic Tennyson work):</span><br />
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And millions of people view these. And people go to other forms of social media to discuss, like, say he/she will take more time out of his/her day to abstain. And how long did you last? A day? Two? <br />
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I'm right there with you.<br />
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This morning I shot the picture (yes, with my iPad) at the top of this entry. Why these items?<br />
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1. Technology<br />
2. Writing<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3878723012727136402" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3878723012727136402" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>3. Memory (This card is to celebrate our recent wedding, yes...but the blue Mustang convertible reminded my dad's army buddy and his wife of my dad's car...it looks identical to his actually. And since dad has long since passed, they wanted to remind me that he would still be there on my wedding day.)<br />
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Effects of communication aside, I've been thinking about the relationship between technology/writing/memory. I'm uncertain where this will take me, but the outcome will be a collaborative creative work.<br />
<br />
There's something there that I'm trying to uncover...but I'm not sure what...or why. When I try to decide how to approach this project, I keep seeing images of my grandmother's kitchen, the rocker in the corner, my father's mustang in the garage, my aunt holding a cup of coffee at the kitchen bar talking to me about life past 2AM...and I wonder...what would be different about those childhood memories, of people who are no longer here, had a Smart phone been next to me?<br />
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Making memory tangible...I have to end with Paul Auster:<br />
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"The pen will never be able to move fast enough to write down every word discovered in the space of memory. Some things have been lost forever, other things will perhaps be remembered again, and still other things have been lost and found and lost again."<br />
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Well, my cat is pacing at my feet rubbing. Guess I should go feed her. Guess it's time to get back to the real world. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-89833857373069239692013-12-31T15:59:00.000-08:002013-12-31T15:59:46.360-08:00On Getting Married at 41I have something shocking to tell you. It will go against most of what you have seen on TV. Read in books. Watched in films. Ladies, I am here to tell you...it's okay to get married for the first time...at age 41.<br />
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How do I know this? Well...that 41-year-old, first time bride is none other than myself. In four days I will be walking down the aisle behind my bridesmaids who are now closing in on their 20-year wedding anniversaries. My father has long since passed away, and none of my grandparents survived to see this day. But the day is finally upon me. And I couldn't be happier.<br />
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The best part of waiting to get married is that you have a better sense of who you are...at least that is the case with me. I was recently asked if my future husband completes me. I said, "No. He enhances who I have already become." I don't think that anyone should complete you (sorry, Jerry Maguire). I think you need to be in space where your life is complete with or without a man. Now, don't get me wrong. It took me years to learn this lesson. I bought into all of the Disney and Hollywood myths (and I'm here to tell you that women still do, which is a big problem...but, hey, they're making millions, so why change now?). <br />
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Now I do know couples who are still happily married straight out of college, and I've dated some good men in my life (okay, maybe two or three). I even came close to being engaged twice. But I wasn't comfortable in my own skin. My self-esteem took years to solidify especially when it came to who I dated. My father was a very dominant man, and our home was the stereotypical 50's household, but there was violent behavior and there was a lesson in female submission that needed to be unlearned. I'm not proud of some of the decisions I made when it came to men, or some of my behavior, but I didn't know better. And then I learned better. And it took years of my time.<br />
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But the time was not wasted. I didn't sit in the corner and cry (okay, sometimes, but my friends eventually pulled me up and took me out for ice cream). I knew that I could not control if or when someone would come into my life. But what I could control was how I lived it. So I decided to go to graduate school. To spend time with my father's family after his death. Seven years passed in Acadiana, and I wouldn't trade one minute of that experience. I wrote, I met lifelong friends, I earned my Ph.D., I leaped over barricades to catch Mardi Gras beads...well, that's a story for another post.<br />
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And when I graduated I got a job at TCU (where I am still teaching to this day), and I love every minute of my job (well, sometimes when the papers pile above my head, you will hear me grumble from behind them). It was around that time that I started to have friends buzz in my ear, "Have you tried online dating? Try online dating!" Lord. Really? That's for desperate people. What if I end up with some creepy dude in cyberspace who stalks my apartment past midnight? But after about a year of that buzz, I took the plunge. And four creepy guys later, I met Kevin...one week before my subscription would expire on eHarmony...on my birthday.<br />
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Three years later, two beautiful step-kids, and one amazing man later, here we are...four days before our wedding. <br />
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I'm here to tell you that the number of days it takes you to get married is trivial. Live your life. Don't waste it wondering why it's not turning out one way or another. That's not something that you can control. What you can control is your own happiness. And if the right person comes along, whatever age that happens at, you will be ready. And if he doesn't, that's okay, too...despite what your mother says.<br />
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So if you see a 41-year-old bride on the road this weekend, her veil blowing in the Texas breeze, don't be afraid. It's just me. It's taken me some time, I took the long way around, but I'm finally getting to the chapel. <br />
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And it's my turn to say, "I do."<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-77144962604613197272013-08-21T20:38:00.001-07:002013-08-21T20:39:01.007-07:00And Then There Was 40If someone would have told me 10 or 20 years ago that 40 would be on of my best years, I would have laughed...relentlessly. I mean, isn't there a reason why they sell stuffed vultures and black crepe paper for those middle-aged parties? Give out diapers and Geritol as party favors? And, yes, I do see the effects of my years slowly creeping in. The gray hair is starting to sprout from the top of my head. My bedtime is now well before midnight (you're talking to the person who used to stay up until 3AM and then sleep until noon). My knees are starting to click when I go up the stairs. I do laundry on Friday nights...and enjoy it.<br />
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But what people fail to tell you about 40 is that you've come to a point in your life where you have settled more and more into who you are, where you stand, and what you will not stand for. That's not to say I have it all figured out. I don't. And I'm not sure I want to. My life, for me, should have constant room for growth, development, and pushing myself into new directions. <br />
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And 40 was certainly a year for just that.<br />
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This past year I signed up for two photography classes (thanks, Dwight!) and began to explore life beyond the lens.<br />
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This year I submitted my play for publication (after seven years of having it sit idly on my computer). My fingers are crossed that good news will soon come my way. <br />
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This year my boyfriend proposed to me after three years of dating, and yes, this is my first time being married. I will be the first to admit that I made some poor choices when it came to the guys I dated. But, the older I got, the more confident I grew. And with that confidence came an understanding of who I was, what I wanted, and what I would not settle for. Just when I had reached the point where I had made that discovery, my fiancee entered into it. The timing was finally right. And I said yes.<br />
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This year we are building a home together, just as we will begin building our lives together...a brick at a time, a step at a time, with a solid foundation to hold us up. <br />
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So, yeah, I might be over-the-hill to some...but I'm flying down that hill and looking for the next one to climb. And I'm the happiest I've been in a long time.<br />
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41...I'm ready...let's see what you got.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-3138478363141052072013-05-28T19:36:00.000-07:002013-05-28T19:37:33.625-07:00The Professor Wants to Know...I was playing around on my computer tonight researching female playwrights for my upcoming drama course this fall when I found myself reading through articles about new plays, new terms (such as the "angry young woman" borrowing from John Osbourne's "angry young man" of the late 50s), and new faces. And, once again, I was reminded that it has been some time since I have sat down and written a full-length play.<br />
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Poetry has always been my "go to" place when I write, but lately, writing has taken a backseat to my photography. To remedy that, I'm starting up a new project this summer with some friends, and I am excited about the possibilities that can arise out of it.<br />
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I've always loved working collaboratively with fellow artists, and in fact, tonight I stumbled across an old photograph from grad school:<br />
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Every Thursday night there was a reading for graduate students to feature their work, and on this night, a few of us decided to experiment with our reading. Two of us read poetry, one of us composed music to accompany the words, and the other created a visual image as the reading transpired.<br />
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As busy as we all were writing our dissertations, juggling teaching, grading papers, meeting with students, meeting with our committees, we still found time to create. And I loved every minute of it. There was no impending pressure to publish, to write, to perform. We just did. And it was magical.<br />
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Seven years later, I am struggling to find that same balance, and what I thought was an individual issue turns out to be a recurring theme among some of these very people that I once collaborated with. I'd actually like to explore this further with some of you.<br />
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I'm curious...for those of you who have been an adjunct or instructor, do you find yourself more or less prolific since your graduate school days? Do you think that there is a difference between non-tenured and tenured track in this regard? Are there gender issues at play, or is it common across the board? If you are recently graduating, will you move away from academia or seek it out? Why?<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-16875330903572696532012-12-10T10:12:00.000-08:002013-03-06T18:39:04.024-08:00Me: Plain and SimpleMy original intention with <i>The 40 Project </i>was to check items off my list on a monthly basis and write about the experience...then the fall semester got underway, and I fell off the blog wagon. I know speaking to fellow college instructors that this is our constant battle -- how to effectively balance teaching and be active with our own work/research/writing.<br />
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We are still looking for answers. <br />
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What I want to focus on today is that I am continuing to go outside of my comfort zone and take part in activities that I've always wanted to do, but for one reason or another, have yet to accomplish. Yesterday was one of those days. When a friend of mine put a call out for actors, I jumped at the opportunity to take part in a short film project. Even though film is one of my major areas of study, I 've never been an actor in a film. I knew how different the process would be from my time on stage, but I never really thought about everything the process itself entailed. And I loved it. I loved the lights' heat on my face, the stills adding up to a final, fluid movement, the close ups.<br />
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Ah, the close ups.<br />
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There was a noticeable issue there, and it just comes with age. For some, it's gray hair. For others, it's complexion. For me, it's those pockets that have formed under my eyes. The bags. The "try this product to reduce swelling, and then when that doesn't work, spend your money on this other product, because we guarantee that this, along with extensive Photoshopping, will get rid of those incessant bags." I've tried it all. Every roll-on ball with gels, lotions, and pastes. Cortisone, Preparation H (yep...you know you've heard that, too), ice packs...need I go on? (If you've kept up with my Facebook posts or heard me tell this story, you'll even remember the time I went to see a doctor about a sinus infection and he looked at me, pointed to my eyes, and asked, "What's going on there?") There was finally a make-up artist who came over with concealer and powder and did her best to hide my imperfection.<br />
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We'll see how it turns out in the final edit.<br />
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On the way home (the entire 45 minutes home), I thought about how women's physical flaws are often pointed out. It's nothing new, and we've heard it all before. But I also thought about how I could respond to this. What is my reaction going to be?<br />
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Here's what I decided: <br />
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When I teach issues of gender in the classroom, I ask my students, "If we know that the images that we are barraged with on a daily basis are not real, are unattainable, why do we continue to strive for this false ideal?" Yesterday, the tables were turned, and I was the one in search of an answer. I realized that the real problem is not that I have bags under my eyes. The real
problem is that we do not see this often enough in our image-driven
culture. <br />
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While some may choose to see external bags, redness on the cheeks, or un-brushed hair, I choose to celebrate what the external holds. My face carries a lifetime of experiences, and I've earned every line on my face. One of things I know for sure, what is truly important, exists beyond the face, and those who hold the most significance in my life, celebrate that fact with me every day. <br />
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Plain and simple.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-22880978315399897512012-09-20T19:32:00.002-07:002012-09-20T19:40:41.357-07:00Artistic Resuscitation Four score and a couple of blogs ago, I was in a bit of an artistic funk. Despite a dear friend telling me just to "be creative again," the wall was up and wouldn't budge. <br />
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The longer I'm not creative, the more time I spend away from expressing myself in that way, the more I feel a sense of loss. Even though I was far from the mood, I forced myself to get back "out there" and do something. After all, this year is supposed to be the year I reach out of my comfort zone and explore different avenues, possibilities, and opportunities.<br />
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Last week, I was talking to some theater students after class, telling them how I missed being on the stage. They told me to check out the theater department and try to get involved again (simple, and yet, it was something I had shied away from). Right after class, I decided to go to our theater department's website. I read through various profiles and chose one professor that I could talk to. I wasn't entirely sure what the discussion was going to be about. I mean, I had some general ideas about getting back on stage, maybe seeing my play produced professionally, etc., but the plan was just to move forward...with anything creative. We did meet for lunch just a few days later, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed for an upcoming production of my work. But really, it just felt good to "talk theater" again.<br />
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Tonight was no different. I had the privilege of driving a visiting professor to dinner. His specialization is in both Augusto Boal's Theatre of the Oppressed and in LGBT young adult lit. The connection makes perfect sense, but it is not one I had previously made. I have taught Boal to my underclassmen before, and on separate occasions I have taught LGBT drama and film. What excited me is that there is still room for exploration on the stage that has yet to be discovered. Why do we have films, TV shows, and plays about the LGBT community but little, if any, that deal directly with, and feature, the youth? Simply put, it's the controversy that surrounds this subject matter. It's alive and well. But the possibilities...the possibilities are, too.<br />
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I don't know what will come out of either of these meetings. What I do know is that the wall is finally beginning to budge.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-90702870541560881302012-09-13T18:18:00.001-07:002012-09-13T18:18:15.860-07:00Roses for Bobby CI've often told friends of mine that I have a hard time remembering my teachers during my time as an undergraduate student; this is not the case when it comes to graduate school.<br />
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I learned today that one of my former professors, Dr. Barbara Cicardo, passed away.<br />
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Now, Dr. Cicardo was a pretty amazing woman. It seemed that she had read just about everything, and her memory was unlike anything I've ever seen. Unless I've read a book more than once or taught it, I'm lucky if I can detail the plot for you a few months later. But Dr. Cicardo could remember what she read during elementary school and tell you details as if she had just closed the cover...well into her 70's. <br />
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I took a few classes with Dr. Cicardo to prepare myself for my early American literature comprehensive exam. One such class was on the American Eve, an interesting study in women's roles in 18th and early 19th century texts. The class was once a week for three hours. Filling up a three-hour lecture is no easy task; but if you were Barbara Cicardo, this was done with ease. Not even laryngitis stopped her. One night she actually wrote the lecture on the board in between whispers. <br />
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If you needed to stop into her office, her door was always open. Joke was, you would need to pencil in about an hour of your time. She wouldn't just want to talk to you about literature. She'd want to talk to you about life in general. About her sister. About her youth. About her day.<br />
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A handful of graduate students affectionately called her Bobby C., but you knew better than to address her as anything other than Dr. Cicardo in class and in the hallways. She told us that she had earned her title and she was proud of it.<br />
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So, Dr. Cicardo, here's to you. I hope my career in academia lasts the length of yours, and I thank you for the time you dedicated to us over the years.<br />
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Youth</div>
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Age</div>
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Beauty</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-71803666281711419562012-09-10T20:02:00.002-07:002012-09-10T20:11:33.680-07:00Artistic InsecurityTonight I found myself googling: "artists and insecurity." Yep. I'm having one of those days. And it led me to wonder how people overcome this, because I know I'm not alone. One blogger posed the question: <br />
<br />
"...to what extent [does] insecurity drive creativity, and when [does] insecurity actually undermine creativity"? (Ross).<br />
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I know the "when" answer to the latter part of that question...what I am still searching for is a solution to the "how." (Love the line in The Beatles song "Something" when George sings, "You know I believe in how.") How it undermines creativity is that it can stop it from happening altogether. Now...how do you fix that...stop that from taking hold? <br />
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I am surrounded by truly talented and overwhelmingly productive artists, and somewhere in that space, I question my own creative movement(s)...slow...and resting.<br />
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So...I welcome your thoughts. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-23360841852186934162012-08-09T21:17:00.002-07:002012-08-09T21:17:33.203-07:00The 40 Project<br />
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So...last week in my 30's is fast approaching. Instead of having a midlife crisis, I decided to embrace this new decade by trying a bit of an ongoing experiment.<br />
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Here's my plan:<br />
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For every month in my 40th year, I will do something that pushes me out of my comfort zone. I want this year to be less about buzzards, black streamers, and Geritol and more about living my life to the fullest (I'm ignoring the fact that AARP sent me a membership form in the mail this week). I thought it would be fun to document the events before/during/after they occur on my blog, and I invite anyone else to join in no matter what your age. <br />
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Now, my ideas may not seem as crazy as jumping out of an airplane (unless I am attached to someone who has decades of experience and you have given me ample Valium), but the point is to have fun and to be aware of life's possibilities.<br />
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So far, I only have a couple months preplanned:<br />
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<u>August</u>: Get a haircut that normally would scare the bejesus out of me. This one takes me all the way back to junior high when I got the infamous "perm from hell." If you knew me back then, you know which one I'm talking about....the one that received comments like: Did you stick your finger in a socket, Is that a wig, etc. (FYI, I've told more than one person you couldn't pay me a million dollars to return to age 12-13.) Since then, I tend to stay in my hair comfort zone. Every time I see something a little edgy that I want to try, I get the guts until I get into the hairdresser's chair. This time...this time I'm taking the plunge. (My mother has already informed me she dislikes this idea...I'd say I'm not off to a good start, but this is not an uncommon occurrence.) Here's the plan...minus the blond color:<br />
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<u>September</u>: Cook something out of a cookbook that requires more than 4-5 ingredients and serve it to willing test subjects. (Mama's Pizza is just down the street in case of emergency.)<br />
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<u>October</u>: A DIY project...now that I know what DIY means.<br />
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More to come...let The 40 Project begin!<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-46498908479605834562012-07-25T19:59:00.002-07:002012-07-25T19:59:50.851-07:00MovementsWhen I was younger and would return home with a movie selection from Blockbuster, my mother would ask, "Did you get one of your artsy movies again?" I didn't know what that meant. To me, I saw beauty in film, in shots, in movements. I still do. Five minutes into Kieslowski's <i>Red</i>, she started snoring.<br />
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Now it is 2012. I am in the middle of <i>Beginners. </i>I hear Bach's cello.<br />
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I don't know when or where I first heard this piece, but somehow it makes me feel like a familiar acquaintance is calling to me. <br />
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What is it about certain songs, certain films, certain art that stirs memory and feelings whose origins we can't begin to explain? Why is it that I can look at a portrait and follow the contours of a woman's face, a man's lips, a tree's extension, and a person can walk behind me and ask, "What's the point?" <br />
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I've always loved the complexity of art. How something I see so clearly can perplex the next viewer. My boyfriend and I once found ourselves standing in a hotel lobby. There was a sculpture of horse surrounded by small men, scaffolding, and tools. I said, "Interesting. They are deconstructing the horse," to which he responded, "I thought they were building him."<br />
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It is, in fact, the building of art that is in itself a complexity. <br />
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I miss the days that I was surrounded by fellow artists. Painting parties. Poetry workshops. Foreign film screenings. I thrived during these moments. I was no longer the lonely artist. <br />
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But with time comes change, and the people I was once surrounded by on a daily basis have now moved to different parts of the world. I read their works at a distance. See their faces in a virtual world. And I long to connect to that energy we once created. An energy that can only be generated by art. <br />
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I long for new beginnings.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-63743499162051484222012-06-29T10:28:00.002-07:002012-06-29T10:42:11.495-07:00Perfectly NormalI was on my Facebook page the other day, and I saw something that I see all too often: a 20-something-year-old's post about finding her Prince Charming. This also comes in the form of comments like: I need a man, I need a date, Where is he?, and so on. When I was in my 20's, I'll admit I thought the same things. It's difficult not to. From an early age girls see images of what is "normal" in Western culture, and as we get older, the images often do not change, even though the opportunities for women certainly have.<br />
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Just a FEW of many examples:<br />
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Don't get me wrong...I love Disney and Pixar films. I still laugh at Charlotte and watch <i>Sex and the City</i> reruns. And yes, I teared up when Jerry interrupted the divorced women's group meeting. </div>
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But here's the problem: Women are not only taught that if we do not find our Prince Charming, the world will come to an end, and if we do, in the form of Tom Cruise, he will complete our very being...but we buy into this unattainable ideal. This becomes the new reality. So what happens if you don't live up to these constructed expectations? </div>
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Here's the shocking truth...continue to breath normally and brace yourselves:</div>
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I'm fast approaching 40. I've never been engaged or married. I have no children. I received my Ph.D. in 2007 and have been happily employed as an Instructor at a private university for the past five years. I have been in public places and asked the following questions:</div>
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Are you a lesbian?</div>
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Have you given up on getting married?</div>
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A woman got her Ph.D.?</div>
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Don't you want kids? You better hurry.</div>
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You may be surprised (or not) by some of these, but this has become a normal routine for me. And you know what? The only thing about it that really and truly bothers me is that this is 2012, and it is still seen as something out of the norm. I could sit there and give my story about how when my friends were getting married, I was dealing with the death of my father. I could say that during my late 20's and early 30's I was focusing on my career so I could support myself. I could explain that I chose the wrong men as a result of some violent behaviors I witnessed when I was younger. But then I'm giving excuses for something I shouldn't have to. I'm giving in to justifying why I'm at the place that I am (and even hesitated writing those previous sentences).</div>
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So what's the point? The point is that this place is amazing. I have a job I love and a house in a great neighborhood near an old high school friend. I've traveled the world, I've published a book of poems, and I've written a play (still working on getting the whole piece staged, but one thing at a time). And in this space, I did meet someone. But he doesn't "complete me." He enhances the woman I've become. He loves and respects me for who I am...and he listens to me talk about issues such as these and grins. (And if we do tie the knot, I'll be in a much better place for that than when I was 20 years ago).</div>
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But most importantly, I've come into my own.</div>
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My reason for writing all of this is that I want younger women to know that it's okay to be single by the time you're 40. It's okay not to have children. Sometimes life leads us down different paths, but that does not mean that it should be seen as something "abnormal." Will it feel like you are the only one in that position sometimes? Sure. But I'm here to tell you from experience that you're not. </div>
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So, pop in your fairy tales, watch <i>Sex and the City</i> reruns, or curl up with <i>Bridget Jones' Diary</i> with some popcorn. But when you're done, don't forget that these stories aren't the reality. Your life is the reality. Make the best of it.</div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-60598521901282266872012-06-26T14:39:00.001-07:002012-06-26T14:39:41.253-07:00In Search of a New ProjectIt's never more evident to me that my mind works in an "artistic way" than when I am among those whose don't. I was recently on vacation in Florida, and I was riding a trolley with two other people. I started to notice the interior lines, the intersections of wood, the beach through design-covered windows. My first thought was, why did I just spend money on a fancy camera that I don't use? Second thought...there's always the cell phone. It's not ideal, but it works during times like these. I know there are all of the fancy apps such as Hipstamatic and Instagram, but sometimes I want to take the picture "in the raw" and play with manipulations later on. Of course...once I've placed the image inside the frame, the manipulations have already begun.<br />
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So, I'm tilting my phone up and sideways, and I'm getting into that zone. Suddenly, I hear, "What are you doing?" with an emphasis on "doing." Now luckily I'm not on my stomach or on my back or upside down (admit it, photographers, you've done the same). I was upright, sitting in my seat, enjoying the moment until the bubble burst (later that night you would have thought I needed to be committed when we were outdoors waiting for an available table, and I was pointing my camera up at the sky).<br />
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Submitting evidence below: <br />
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I've studied photographs and films, and I have always wanted to become more of a professional in these areas. One of these days, I'll take a class and see where technical improvements can be made (as I know those exist).<br />
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My central points of interest include the intersections of paintings, film, stills, and the stage. Lately, however, I've come to a standstill as to what my next project will be. I've never officially done film, but I'm intrigued by collaborative theater groups like Fevered Sleep. Often, their audiences consist of children...I tell my students that the reason for this is that children don't question the wonders of the imagination...they invite them in:<br />
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And then there is Stan Brakhage who takes something as simple as moths' wings and makes them into an artistic expression:<br />
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So I'll keep thinking about what my next step will be. In the meantime don't be surprised if you see me pointing my camera up at the sky or out the window. That's just an artist at play.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-74208374501662230352012-03-03T15:44:00.000-08:002012-03-03T15:44:22.011-08:00Can You Escape the Personal in Writing?I had a student come into my office the other day and ask me how she could keep personal, past experiences out of her writing. I sat there for a moment trying to think if that was even possible. Days later, I continue to think if that is ever possible.<br />
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The very reason I started writing at an early age was so that I could make some attempt to articulate my personal experiences, and, in doing so, learn how to work my way through them. Rainer Maria Rilke writes, "<span lang="EL">ΝO ONE CAN ADVISE or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write."</span><br />
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<span lang="EL">I told my student that I may be the wrong person to ask, and then I turned the tables on her. What was her concern? Was it a "problem" she wanted to "solve?" And if that was the case, was (or is) there a way that this is even possible (insert Freud here). </span><br />
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<span lang="EL">She said that she had a "very dark" past that she was not ready to face...she didn't want to enter back into that space as of yet. In time she thought she could, but she wanted her writing to explore other subjects, other moods, other movements. However, the past kept finding its way in.</span><br />
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<span lang="EL">It always does. </span><br />
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<span lang="EL">I told her that if she really wanted to explore other exercises, I could give her a book that may lead her into a different direction, but ultimately, I thought the past would continue to find its way in. I then went on to give her numerous examples of artists/writes/musicians who have created some of the most beautiful work from some of the darkest times in their lives. </span><br />
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<span lang="EL">I think people often feel ashamed of their dark past. That we must be these automatons -- strong...metallic...unwavering. That to say our past rings fear in our ears is something that should be denied. I know those dark places. I've sat in their corners. I've felt the cold fingers of night upon me. But it was in those very spaces that I created some of my strongest writing. It is in those very spaces that I came face to face with my fears and learned them, greeted them, and in doing so, became who I am today.</span><br />
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<span lang="EL">But I didn't tell her all of that. Instead, I questioned the creative process and wondered about its limitations when dealing with the personal...even when we attempt to deny its very existence. </span><br />
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<span lang="EL"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-5166315358722713392012-02-10T18:03:00.000-08:002012-02-10T18:03:44.124-08:00In RecoveryLife(less) Seen<br />
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sitting among baby-bellied women<br />
we wait for the sound-image projected<br />
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they dream in pinks and blues<br />
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but one catches my frown<br />
downing the crowd<br />
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she hands me two chocolates<br />
and walks away<br />
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the only thing fetal is my position<br />
the only thing grown is a 5 cm sack<br />
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barring freedom<br />
and sun<br />
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the nurse says she's big enough to name<br />
I give a caged smile<br />
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three cuts and she'll be gone<br />
two weeks and I'll heal<br />
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my roses are dying<br />
dropping petal on wood<br />
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I have her picture<br />
left unseenUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-33506766894239106182011-09-07T19:30:00.000-07:002011-09-07T19:30:57.685-07:00Get Busy Writing, WomanYep, it's the "I don't know what exactly to do with this blog yet" writer. I guess this is what happens (or at least I am hoping this is what happens) when you decide to start a blog and watch the cursor blinking back at you. Mine is saying, "Dude, seriously...come up with something...anything...you are a writer...you are creative...you can do this..."<br />
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So what I typically do when I don't know where it begin is I think about things for a while. Where do I want to begin? How do I want to begin? What is it that I want to say? And tonight, I stumbled across a blog that I found myself reading for longer than a quick glance. It's actually a woman I've never even met before and only know "virtually" through images. She was (and still is) writing about how she is trying to live a healthier, more balanced life. And after I finished looking at some of her entries and images (she is also a photographer), I found myself in my kitchen putting together a healthy meal: an open-faced organic turkey and mozzarella sandwich drizzled in olive oil and topped with basil with a side of peaches. <br />
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I'm not going to lie and say I didn't end that meal with a small bite of Heath bar...you can't change a sweet-o-holic overnight, people. Ask my childhood friends what they remember about my house when they would come to visit and it's the fact that we always had cookies and candy on the counter...even if some of that candy was those inedible orange circus peanuts that my dad couldn't get enough of.<br />
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I guess what I'm getting at here is that I haven't written anything as of yet, because I didn't think anyone was looking...or that anyone had time to. But the truth in my case, anyway, is that I did have the time, and on this night I actually stumbled across something that resonated with me. And that for a split second, it inspired me to change some old habits that I'm trying to break.<br />
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I realized in that moment that my blog just has to be real. That I need to do what it is that keeps me moving through life...and that is to sit down and write, whatever might come to me. So perhaps one day I'll write about art. Or watching a dozen squirrels come out onto a campus lawn after students are done passing through. Or how I want to begin to live a healthier, more balanced life...and how someone else's writing inspired me to do so.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-3753656303105117262011-08-27T10:24:00.002-07:002011-08-27T10:24:32.756-07:00Gilbert Meets Dobie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/86x-u-tz0MA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878723012727136402.post-62689379627554031862011-08-27T10:24:00.000-07:002011-08-27T10:24:00.320-07:00Recent Addiction to RSA Animation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/zDZFcDGpL4U?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0