Well, it's the day before Christmas Eve and all I have on my mind is my homeless buddy, Howard. Thinking about him is making me jittery. I saw him today outside church. As I hobbled along to daily mass with my possibly broken toe I saw Howard waving at me and calling me over to him. I said, "Are you talking to me Howard?" He said, "Yeah, baby." I said, "Did you get in out of that snow we had? I hope you weren't out in it." He said, "I'm okay." Howard looked extra messy today. And he looked very cold. I said, "Howard, please try to keep yourself warm.' He said, "You comin' tomorrow?" I said, "I'm not sure. What day is tomorrow?" He said, "It's Christmas Eve." I said, "Probably not. Why? Do you want some food? I'll try to make you some cookies if I can come." He said, "No, forget all that stuff. I don't need that now. Can you get me coat with a hood? Anything with a hood? To keep my head warm. Do you have somethin' at home you can bring me?" Howard has never asked me for anything so this sort of shook me up. And it was obviously difficult for him to ask me. He must be so cold. I said, "Oh, I don't have any men's clothes. But let me figure out something." He said, "That's ok. Don't worry." I said, "Hmmm, I know, I can ask a friend inside the church. He talks to you all the time." Howard protested. He was not happy about me asking someone else. I said, "Look Howard, you know him. He's really nice to you. He's cool. I bet he can get you a coat or something." Howard said, "No, I don't want to bother no one. And I don't want him to know it's me asking. Don't tell him what I say to you." I said, "Howard, if he gives you a coat just take it. Don't worry. I have to find you a coat" Howard then went on to tell me that all the other ladies don't him like I do. LOL Poor Howard. He said, "They yell at me all the time. They all think I'm the man who breaks into their cars, but I'm not. I try to explain to them that I don't bother no one.It's that other guy that comes around." I said, "I know it's the other guy. You would never do that. I don't like that other guy." Howard smiled at me.
Anyway, I talked to my friend before and after mass and he's going to try to bring Howard something warm to wear. Howard will be mad at me for asking someone else to get him a coat but at least he will have one. I don't have any money to go buy him a coat. If I had money I would just go buy him one. This is one those times I wish I had money. And I'm really wishing I never spent my little bit of money on all that candy I made to mail to people. I could have bought Howard a coat with that money. Dang. But if my friend comes through Howard will get a Christmas coat from my friend and some Christmas candy from me. It might just end up being a good Christmas for Howard. :)
Let us touch the dying, the poor, the lonely and the unwanted according to the graces we have received and let us not be ashamed or slow to do the humble work. Mother Teresa
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Time Flies and minutes are fleeting & bugs bug me..
Friday Dec. 11, 2009 9:30 pm
It's been over a month since my last blog. I guess the lack of verbosity says it all. Not much to say. Not much to tell. Been way too busy with all my jobs to disserate or post. The plan for now is to NOT renew one job come January. I started off with 4 jobs this semester, then went down to 3, and now realize I will never get this dissertation started if I have more than two jobs. My evening teaching job ends next week. THANK GOD! I have no idea what I was thinking when I said yes to all these jobs. All I know now is that next semester I'll have only two jobs. I'm completely burned out. Being burned out is not the way to go into starting a dissertation.
On a side note. You know what I hate--I hate those long legged centipede bugs--you know the ones with all those legs. Well, one just crawled over my bed and I jumped right out of bed. UGH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Now for the rest of the night I will be scratching thinking bugs are crawling over me. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH And jumping out of bed was not a good move for my bad back. I went to my chiro yesterday. Last weekend I had horrible food poisoning and threw out every single one of my bad vertabrae and bulged every rotten disc. OUCH OUCH OUCH and OUCH. And now using my laptop in bed is making my bad neck feel worse. So I will sign off for tonight. I'll pick this post up tomorrow. YAWN!
What else is new with me? Not much. Been super busy with my work and my students. I love teaching ESL. And I LOVE my students. My morning class runs in 8 weeks sessions. We had a party the last day of class which was cool because Zully taught us Latin dancing and Mekfira and Andenet taught us Ethiopian dancing. We have a lot of fun--maybe too much fun. :) Not sure if I'm teaching them much. But two moved on, and 4 went up to another level within the class, and most raised their pretest scores. So I guess I'm teaching them something.
It's been over a month since my last blog. I guess the lack of verbosity says it all. Not much to say. Not much to tell. Been way too busy with all my jobs to disserate or post. The plan for now is to NOT renew one job come January. I started off with 4 jobs this semester, then went down to 3, and now realize I will never get this dissertation started if I have more than two jobs. My evening teaching job ends next week. THANK GOD! I have no idea what I was thinking when I said yes to all these jobs. All I know now is that next semester I'll have only two jobs. I'm completely burned out. Being burned out is not the way to go into starting a dissertation.
On a side note. You know what I hate--I hate those long legged centipede bugs--you know the ones with all those legs. Well, one just crawled over my bed and I jumped right out of bed. UGH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Now for the rest of the night I will be scratching thinking bugs are crawling over me. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH And jumping out of bed was not a good move for my bad back. I went to my chiro yesterday. Last weekend I had horrible food poisoning and threw out every single one of my bad vertabrae and bulged every rotten disc. OUCH OUCH OUCH and OUCH. And now using my laptop in bed is making my bad neck feel worse. So I will sign off for tonight. I'll pick this post up tomorrow. YAWN!
PS Friday 10:10 pm. Bug Update. I just squashed the nasty ugly hideous little long legged creature. Thank you God for showing him to me before I lay me down to rest. Now I can sleep peacefully and buglessly. :)
Saturday 11:15PM
I'm back. Did you miss me? :)
I have one thing to report that is dissertation related. My evening teaching job is at a local library. Recently the library needed my room for an author lecture and book signing. I got to meet Steve Luxenberg. And wouldn't you know his book falls into my dissertation category. His book's title is Annie's Ghost. Here's his website. http://www.steveluxenberg.com/content/index.asp
I also met his wife and daughter. They were so nice and helpful with ideas for my disseration. Mrs. Luxenberg gave me info on a Victims of Torture group who uses writing for healing. Advocates for Survivors of Torture and Trauma --http://www.astt.org/
What else is new with me? Not much. Been super busy with my work and my students. I love teaching ESL. And I LOVE my students. My morning class runs in 8 weeks sessions. We had a party the last day of class which was cool because Zully taught us Latin dancing and Mekfira and Andenet taught us Ethiopian dancing. We have a lot of fun--maybe too much fun. :) Not sure if I'm teaching them much. But two moved on, and 4 went up to another level within the class, and most raised their pretest scores. So I guess I'm teaching them something.
Are you wondering what's new with my homeless buddy Howard? You remember him. he shows up regularly in my posts. :) I'm starting to feel real bad for Howard. It's getting cold and wet out there. This past week it was rainy, windy and cold. And there's Howard just chillin' on the corner. He's like the postman. He shows up no matter what the weather. I said to him, "Hey Howard, it's getting cold out here. Why don't you go inside someplace and get warm?" He said, "I'm all right." He never goes inside the church like some of the others do. I wish he would keep himself warm. One particulary chilly day I was practically skipping along with my can of smoked almonds I had just bought. I love smoked almonds and hardly ever treat myself to them. I was dreaming about eating them later in the day when I spotted Howard looking particularly miserable. I stopped and said my usual, "Hey Howard, how ya' doin'" He sadly said looking away from me, "I'm so hungry." Now you see Howard never asks me for food. Here is where I sigh with a heavy heart. I said, "Howard, do you like almonds? I just bought some. If you like them, you can have them." He said looking at my bag, "What you got there?" I pulled them out of my bag. He said, "Oh, man, peanuts!" I said, "No, almonds, Do you like almonds?" He said, "Yeah". I said to myself, Bye bye almonds.
The other day I saw Howard again. He didn't hear me say hi. I looked up (Howard towers over me). Howard had headphones on. LOL. I yelled, "Hey Howard!" He took off one of his head phones. I said, "You got headphones?" He just smiled. I said, "What are you listening to?" He shrugged his shoulders. I said, "You don't know?" He said, "No" and chuckled. I started chuckling too. I said, "Ok Howard. That's cool that you have some music. See ya' later." He said, "Bye Baby." And inside the church I went. I love when Howard calls me baby. :) I got to get a pic of Howard one of these days.
I got a new Ashley Cleveland CD recently. Like Howard I need my music.
I got a new Ashley Cleveland CD recently. Like Howard I need my music.
PS Ignore my typos. I'm too tired to fix them right now.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Doodle Brain
Everyone supposedly has a hidden talent. Well, as I looked through more of my Piled High and Deep notebooks today I found that I'm quite the little artist, or shall I say, doodler. I have always loved to doodle on my schoolwork--and shriek--on my textbooks, and sometimes even on my desk. This love goes back to early childhood. Many times I found myself being chastised by a controlling teacher telling me to erase my doodling and to pay attention. The irony in this is that stopping me from doodling made me pay less attention. I tend to focus better on what I am hearing if I concentrate on a doodle. This is probably the same theory coming into play that makes me unable to fall alseep in silence. I need to have headphones on with talk radio going to block out outside noises. My father was an arist. I guess I inherited my doodle love from him. Although he was a much better artist than I am. I cannot draw at all, but I do love a good doodling session. Anyway, I would like to share with you some of my notebook doodle masterpieces--
Super Student
Why didn't Bono marry me?
Super Student
Smart Student Cap
Why didn't Bono marry me?
Nature Escape
Huh, what is the teacher saying?
Academic Overload
MAM the Creative Academic Revolutionary--it's a lonely business
Maybe I should get a job with PhD comics and forget this whole dissertation idea.
Monday, November 2, 2009
A traditionally boring academic post just to prove I'm legit
Well, it's already November. Someone recently told me in an email that the beginning of your dissertation goes ever sooooooooooooo slll-----ooooowwww----llllyyyy. Not a truer statement have I heard lately. I think I will call myself Mary Snail instead of Mary Alice.
The other day my friend Arlene called and said, "Wow, so you've started your dissertation." I said, "No, not really." She said, 'Yeah, you have. It's on your blog. You took out the box and opened it. Boxes are BIG!" I said, "Huh, you actually read my blog?" Ha ha. Arlene is right. Only mothers and dissertators know just how daunting an unopened box can be. So I guess the fact that I have the box sitting on my kitchen table is a testament to the fact that I have begun the process.
I'm also happy to report that today I dusted off my PhD notebooks and started reading through them. Wahoo! Speaking of notebooks, here's a tip for those of you who might be in school. Remember to write legibly. Boy, is my penmanship messy. I used to have beautiful penmanship. My grandmother and mother used to take great pride in my pretty script. My cursive is no longer pretty. It is downright hideous. I noticed my penmanship changing for the worse after my car accident years ago. Must be a side effect of the nasty bump my head took. Ever since then I have trouble writing with a pen. Oh, well. Good thing computers came into being.
Nana and Mom would no longer be proud.
Another thing I noticed reading over my notebooks is that I don't even remember taking some of these notes. Here's an example--
I have no recollection of drawing this chart. I must say it seems pretty impressive. I don't know about you, but I feel smarter just looking at it. It is about Sociolinquists.
Isn't my name pretty in Arabic?
And when all else fails when bored, you take nap. Good night!
The other day my friend Arlene called and said, "Wow, so you've started your dissertation." I said, "No, not really." She said, 'Yeah, you have. It's on your blog. You took out the box and opened it. Boxes are BIG!" I said, "Huh, you actually read my blog?" Ha ha. Arlene is right. Only mothers and dissertators know just how daunting an unopened box can be. So I guess the fact that I have the box sitting on my kitchen table is a testament to the fact that I have begun the process.
I'm also happy to report that today I dusted off my PhD notebooks and started reading through them. Wahoo! Speaking of notebooks, here's a tip for those of you who might be in school. Remember to write legibly. Boy, is my penmanship messy. I used to have beautiful penmanship. My grandmother and mother used to take great pride in my pretty script. My cursive is no longer pretty. It is downright hideous. I noticed my penmanship changing for the worse after my car accident years ago. Must be a side effect of the nasty bump my head took. Ever since then I have trouble writing with a pen. Oh, well. Good thing computers came into being.
Nana and Mom would no longer be proud.
Another thing I noticed reading over my notebooks is that I don't even remember taking some of these notes. Here's an example--
I have no recollection of drawing this chart. I must say it seems pretty impressive. I don't know about you, but I feel smarter just looking at it. It is about Sociolinquists.
I looked at notes from my Statistics course, my Technology and Literacy course, and my Language and Social Context course. Here are some notes I highlighted (probably only of interest to me)--
- Researchers are narrow. Know your area very well so that you are an expert.
- Working narrowly makes you go deep.
- The more participants in your study the more degree of freedom.
- Researchers try to find patterns, make senses, organize.
- Truth--search for truth w/a capital T versus small t. Truth for you and me versus truth for everyone.
- Why is allegiance to universal truths so deeply felt by some?
- Descartes was deconstructionalized--a mistake to separate any person from their historical origins.
- Truth--one of the most difficult of all topics to define and explain. Truth is intimately related to questions of meaning and establishing the relationship between the two is difficult. And there is disagreement between searchers of both. There's agreement as to what contstitutes truth: statements, propositions, beliefs, assertions, but how truth is established is debated.
- Major theories of truth: Correspondance Theory--holds that a statement is true or false depending on whether the content of a statement or belief accurately matches or represents some state of affairs in the world. Picture theory of meaning--holds that a statement is true or false depending on whether reality matches the picture represented by the belief. Consensus theory of truth--holds that the truth of a statement is a matter of consensus on beliefs and values that responsible people would reach in an ideal speech situation. Coherence theory of truth--judges the truth of falsity of statement in terms of the degree to which its conherent w/a background of settled beliefs. Contextualist theory of truth--claims that truth is not something about which there can ever be an important philosophical theory because truth is just a term of agreement, a statement is justified or regarded as true relative to some particular community or culture of inquirers. Pragmatic theory of truth--truth of assertions is determined by whether they function well in helping us understand the world.
- Philosophical hermeneutics--truth and meaning is something that is disclosed in the relationship of interpreter to the object of interpretation.
- Conflict arises when it is believed that calling a statement true is to claim that it accurately accounts for and explains events that actually occur in the real world=representation versus accuracy.
- human action is considered meaningful in the sense that it cannot be adequately described in purely physical terms.
This note particulary stands out--
- a process of dialogue and listening in which the living word of conversation is privileged.
I really like the bolded sentiment. Conversation is alive and it is truly a privilege to listen and to be heard. :)
I also noticed while reading my notebooks how often I became bored. I must have a short attention span. I like to doodle. What does one do when they get bored? They turn to their Jordanian neighbor and ask how to spell Mary Alice in Arabic--
Isn't my name pretty in Arabic?
And when all else fails when bored, you take nap. Good night!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Nana Cliches, Crumbs, and Shelters.
Well, quitting my 4th job was a good move. I feel like I can breathe again. It's amazing how freeing up a few hours two days a week makes such a difference both mentally and physically. So now I'm down to just three jobs. Ha!!! Gee, is that too too many? Oh, well. I guess things will fall into place when they're supposed to. I'm getting so much better at not worrying. When I was younger I used to worry all the time. The older I get I realize my Nana really knew what she was talking about when she spit out phrases such as, "Today has enough worries of it's own. Don't worry about tomorrow". Nana was a great one for cliches--especially biblical ones. She loved them as much as she loved her God.
Another one of Nana's favorite cliches was, "You have the world in the palm of your hands, Mary Alice." Nana understood the value of a good cliche for she worked hard her whole life. Nana raised three kids by herself during the depression. I'm sure Nana had many private tribulations. I say private because Nana was a very private lady. Most of her sufferings I learned about from my mother. My mother said she never once heard my grandmother complain, and she had much to complain about. That is truly amazing when you think about the inner strength it takes to never complain. And my mother said she saw my grandmother cry only once. She cried when she buried her wayward alcoholic husband. My mother was a full grown woman when her father died. Her father was never in her life. My mother asked Nana why she was crying. Nana's answer was, "I'm crying for what could have been." Hmmmm. Back then, there was no Alcoholics Anonymous.
Now, my good ol' 84 year-old Aunt Mary likes to tell me what my uncle said whenever he found Aunt Mary worrying. Uncle Warren would say, "Mary, is there anything you can do to change the situation? No, then there's no use worrying about it. Will worrying fix it? Will worrying change it? No. So don't worry." He was definitely Nana's son. Nana probably told him when he was sick as a child in the hospital (he had hemophelia), "Worrying won't add a minute to your day, Warren". ;)
Nana was cool. Everyone liked Nana. She was one of those salt of the earth people. I loved her so much and I miss her everyday. I miss her hand on my knee patting it. I miss the way she would hold my hand even when I was too old to hold hands. She used to spend Tuesdays at my house when I was growing up. I used to run home from school to eat her homecooked concoctions and listen to her stories. Nana always had a story for me. I would sit at the kitchen table, or on a stool by the the sink, listening to her life lessons while I peeled the carrots and potatoes that went into her chicken pot pie. Nana always called me, "My Mary Alice." I can still hear the caring inflection in her voice when she pronounced the MY. Looking back I realize how much Nana knew I needed to be truly special in someone's eyes. Nana was everything to me. When she got too old so that her Tuesday visits had to stop I called her everyday at 3pm to tell her about my school day. Sometimes she would help me with my homework. Even if I already knew the answer I would ask her for help anyway. :) Nana loved a mission.
I remember when Nana was old and living in a nursing home. Sometimes I would be there when my Uncle Warren would come to visit her. My uncle was a lay Eucharistic minister in the Catholic church and would bring my grandmother communion. He inherited Nana's love for faith. Nothing made Nana happier or prouder than to receive communion from Uncle Warren. He took such good care of Nana. He would ever so tenderly wipe her mouth with a kleenex. I remember thinking how this was the circle of life unfolding. Growing up I would hear Nana and my mother tell stories about how much time my grandmother spent in the hospital with my uncle when he was a boy. And then years later life reversed itself. My uncle was taking care of the woman who took care of him. My uncle was the definition of a "real" man. He was good man who worked hard to take care of his seven kids. And he was a good son. I miss him too.
On another note, I haven't talked about my homeless buddy Howard in a while. I saw him yesterday. I sense there might be trouble brewing on the street corner. Lately, there's been a new guy hanging outside the church. This has been worrying me. Howard looks a little disconcerted. The other guy seems to be a smooth operator. Howard is sincere. The other guy is much younger than Howard and he's spry. Howard is getting on in age and is floppy. Yesterday when the other guy was out of earshot I asked Howard, "Howard, is that guy moving in on your territory?" Howard just grunted. I said, "Well, is he?" Howard said, "Argh, I'm alright but he ain't nice." I said, "What? Why?" Howard growled, "He goes inside the church and steals money from ladies purses when they ain't wathcin' They had to lock the other doors. Only the middle one is open. I never go inside the church and bother folk!" I said, "I know. You're good. He's sneaky!" All I know is the other guy will not be getting any of my homemade cookies anytime soon. Only Howard will. Howard is respectful and special. Speaking of Howard's cookies--poor Howard lost out on his cookies this week. Yesterday I forgot to bring them and apologized to him. Howard just smiled. Then when I got home I forgot that I placed them in a bag and set them on a chair by the door. Without thinking I sat down on the cookies. Now they're cookie crumbs. :( Might make a good crust for a pie or a cheesecake. Oh, now, there's an idea!
Hmmm, this post really has nothing to do with my disseration, does it? Maybe I should go and read a paper or two from the box I finally opened. I'll leave you with this song: Out of the Rain by Etta James. Thinking about my Nana, my uncle, and my Howard makes me realize how many obstacles they each overcame to reach some shelter.
Be back later ...
Another one of Nana's favorite cliches was, "You have the world in the palm of your hands, Mary Alice." Nana understood the value of a good cliche for she worked hard her whole life. Nana raised three kids by herself during the depression. I'm sure Nana had many private tribulations. I say private because Nana was a very private lady. Most of her sufferings I learned about from my mother. My mother said she never once heard my grandmother complain, and she had much to complain about. That is truly amazing when you think about the inner strength it takes to never complain. And my mother said she saw my grandmother cry only once. She cried when she buried her wayward alcoholic husband. My mother was a full grown woman when her father died. Her father was never in her life. My mother asked Nana why she was crying. Nana's answer was, "I'm crying for what could have been." Hmmmm. Back then, there was no Alcoholics Anonymous.
Now, my good ol' 84 year-old Aunt Mary likes to tell me what my uncle said whenever he found Aunt Mary worrying. Uncle Warren would say, "Mary, is there anything you can do to change the situation? No, then there's no use worrying about it. Will worrying fix it? Will worrying change it? No. So don't worry." He was definitely Nana's son. Nana probably told him when he was sick as a child in the hospital (he had hemophelia), "Worrying won't add a minute to your day, Warren". ;)
Nana was cool. Everyone liked Nana. She was one of those salt of the earth people. I loved her so much and I miss her everyday. I miss her hand on my knee patting it. I miss the way she would hold my hand even when I was too old to hold hands. She used to spend Tuesdays at my house when I was growing up. I used to run home from school to eat her homecooked concoctions and listen to her stories. Nana always had a story for me. I would sit at the kitchen table, or on a stool by the the sink, listening to her life lessons while I peeled the carrots and potatoes that went into her chicken pot pie. Nana always called me, "My Mary Alice." I can still hear the caring inflection in her voice when she pronounced the MY. Looking back I realize how much Nana knew I needed to be truly special in someone's eyes. Nana was everything to me. When she got too old so that her Tuesday visits had to stop I called her everyday at 3pm to tell her about my school day. Sometimes she would help me with my homework. Even if I already knew the answer I would ask her for help anyway. :) Nana loved a mission.
I remember when Nana was old and living in a nursing home. Sometimes I would be there when my Uncle Warren would come to visit her. My uncle was a lay Eucharistic minister in the Catholic church and would bring my grandmother communion. He inherited Nana's love for faith. Nothing made Nana happier or prouder than to receive communion from Uncle Warren. He took such good care of Nana. He would ever so tenderly wipe her mouth with a kleenex. I remember thinking how this was the circle of life unfolding. Growing up I would hear Nana and my mother tell stories about how much time my grandmother spent in the hospital with my uncle when he was a boy. And then years later life reversed itself. My uncle was taking care of the woman who took care of him. My uncle was the definition of a "real" man. He was good man who worked hard to take care of his seven kids. And he was a good son. I miss him too.
On another note, I haven't talked about my homeless buddy Howard in a while. I saw him yesterday. I sense there might be trouble brewing on the street corner. Lately, there's been a new guy hanging outside the church. This has been worrying me. Howard looks a little disconcerted. The other guy seems to be a smooth operator. Howard is sincere. The other guy is much younger than Howard and he's spry. Howard is getting on in age and is floppy. Yesterday when the other guy was out of earshot I asked Howard, "Howard, is that guy moving in on your territory?" Howard just grunted. I said, "Well, is he?" Howard said, "Argh, I'm alright but he ain't nice." I said, "What? Why?" Howard growled, "He goes inside the church and steals money from ladies purses when they ain't wathcin' They had to lock the other doors. Only the middle one is open. I never go inside the church and bother folk!" I said, "I know. You're good. He's sneaky!" All I know is the other guy will not be getting any of my homemade cookies anytime soon. Only Howard will. Howard is respectful and special. Speaking of Howard's cookies--poor Howard lost out on his cookies this week. Yesterday I forgot to bring them and apologized to him. Howard just smiled. Then when I got home I forgot that I placed them in a bag and set them on a chair by the door. Without thinking I sat down on the cookies. Now they're cookie crumbs. :( Might make a good crust for a pie or a cheesecake. Oh, now, there's an idea!
Hmmm, this post really has nothing to do with my disseration, does it? Maybe I should go and read a paper or two from the box I finally opened. I'll leave you with this song: Out of the Rain by Etta James. Thinking about my Nana, my uncle, and my Howard makes me realize how many obstacles they each overcame to reach some shelter.
Be back later ...
Friday, October 16, 2009
And he said, let the box be opened! WAHOO!!! APPLAUSE PLEASE
A true miracle has occured. Let it be documented. A miracle such as this should be captured on video.
And now ladies and gentleman! Let me present the The Binder Opens and The Box's Unveiling.
Your thunderous applause is warming my heart--music to my ears! CLAP CLAP CLAP Bravisimo MAM!!!!!
First comes the binder ...
Then the unveiling ...
Well, there you have it. I just had to share.
On another note, I talked with a priest friend today who thinks I'm nuts working four jobs. He gently "suggested" I quit one. Considering he has a good track record consisting of good advice, I think it's time for me to admit that all my friends are correct in their deeming me nuts. MAM is most certainly certifiable. Something has to give. So I'm quitting one of my part-time online jobs. That will free up Wednesday mornings and afternoons and Saturdays. And if my two teaching jobs are offered to me again in January, I'll only do the morning one. I need to devote the next few years to the dissertation. And I also need to do what the priest said and trust that God will work out jobs for me come January. But I guess I need to be alive and not dead from exhaustion and mental burn out in order to see it all work out. So quitting a job it will be. I've been poor for so long a little longer will be of no consequence.
Peace, from relieved-to-see-light-at-the-bottom-of-the-box MAM :)
PS In an earlier post a friend said I need good music playing while I work on my dissertation. This song is making me happy lately. Woooooweeee. Ain't doin' too bad at all baby!
And now ladies and gentleman! Let me present the The Binder Opens and The Box's Unveiling.
Your thunderous applause is warming my heart--music to my ears! CLAP CLAP CLAP Bravisimo MAM!!!!!
First comes the binder ...
Then the unveiling ...
Well, there you have it. I just had to share.
On another note, I talked with a priest friend today who thinks I'm nuts working four jobs. He gently "suggested" I quit one. Considering he has a good track record consisting of good advice, I think it's time for me to admit that all my friends are correct in their deeming me nuts. MAM is most certainly certifiable. Something has to give. So I'm quitting one of my part-time online jobs. That will free up Wednesday mornings and afternoons and Saturdays. And if my two teaching jobs are offered to me again in January, I'll only do the morning one. I need to devote the next few years to the dissertation. And I also need to do what the priest said and trust that God will work out jobs for me come January. But I guess I need to be alive and not dead from exhaustion and mental burn out in order to see it all work out. So quitting a job it will be. I've been poor for so long a little longer will be of no consequence.
Peace, from relieved-to-see-light-at-the-bottom-of-the-box MAM :)
PS In an earlier post a friend said I need good music playing while I work on my dissertation. This song is making me happy lately. Woooooweeee. Ain't doin' too bad at all baby!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Fessing Up and Paper Memories
Ok, I must fess up. I did not open the box yesterday or the day before. :( ARGH! I really do need to go through the papers, etc. in the dreaded box in order to get my academic blood curdling again. Ahhh, why did I say yes to that 4th job?
Note to self: MAM, that was so stupid of you to accept a 4th teaching job. Why did you not realize paperwork came along with teaching jobs? STUPID DUMB MAM! Bad Bad MAM! Never do that again, MAM!
Felling guilty (although I really have nothing to feel guilty about) made me look in my computer files for papers I wrote during my PhD coursework period. However, I really want to read the hard copies with the teachers comments on them but they are in the dreaded box and it is late (11:20pm), my feet have ice packs on them, and I do not have the energy to go lift the lid to that heavy box. So I did the next best thing. I pulled up a PhD paper from my computer to reread. I must say I cannot believe I wrote this paper in such a short amount of time. I do not recommend cramming PhD coursework into one year. Everything I did was so rushed. I'm amazed I pulled it off. And that was with working on top of studying. For those of you wondering what my interest is in, this paper will give you some insight. If I can ever get my juices flowing again (and time ends up on my side) my dissertation will explore how writing is a healing mechanism.
The following paper was one of the first papers I wrote in my program. I'm happy to say the paper received an A, which I admit was unexpected. I always expect the worst, so an A wasn't even on my radar. I considered the grade a gift. It gave me the needed confidence to continue on. :) I remember calling my closest friends and my mother squealing with relief and delight over my grade. Eveything you did in grad school seemed to have so much pressure attached to it. Unless you have gone through it, it's hard to explain.
Anyway, here is copy of the paper. I'm not even sure if this was the final version I turned in. I won't know that until I open up the box and read the hard copy. :) Rereading this one I see some punctuation errors I hope I didn't have in the final version.
Dr. Ben Rafoth
English 800
3 December 2006
Narrating My Way to Healing Truth and Meaning:
A Philosophical Approach
Thursday of this week would have been my father’s eighty-second birthday. My father died when he was fifty-six years old. Why do I still remember his birthday year after year? It’s not as though I liked him and have fond memories of him. I hated him. When I was a teenager, I got down on my knees every night and begged God, “Please make Dad die of a heart attack or something.”
When I was fifteen, my mother asked me through her sobbing, “Mary Alice, should I leave him?”
I answered, “Of course you should. He’s terrible.”
At eighteen-years old, my prayers were finally answered, just not in a way I expected. After two years of my father being legally separated from my mother, and a judge placing a restraining order on him to stay away from me, and being estranged from my four older brothers, my father decided that he couldn’t take one more day of living. He committed suicide. What he loved more than his family finally exerted its full supremacy over him. He was found in a room in the Hotel Sonesta in the city of Boston, my hometown. The room had a soft hazy early morning summer view of the Charles River. Harvard’s crew team was rowing through one of their daily morning practices on the river. The rowers had no idea that when they looked up at the hotel’s windows between rowing a stunned maid was figuring out what to do with the dead body she had just found—definitely not a good way for a maid to begin her work day. Resting by my father’s middle-aged body was a piece of paper with words scribbled in blue ink on it, a pen, a bottle of pills and a bottle of alcohol. Actually, I think the suicide note was lying on his protruding belly. I do not know what kind of alcohol was in the bottle. I wish I could find that maid and ask her. I want to know. I wonder if it was that dark Heineken that he loved more than me.
Are you thinking, “Why is Mary Alice telling me this?” Or, are you thinking, “I sure wish Mary Alice would keep her private thoughts to herself,” or maybe you are thinking, “Mary Alice needs therapy.” I do not need therapy. Not anymore. I’ve been there and done that—five years of psychiatry—from age fifteen to twenty. It helped. One thing my psychiatrist told me to do was to write. She used to tell me to write my feelings and thoughts because the act of writing would help me heal. I resisted her advice. Back then, I just could not write. I couldn’t write because when I was twelve-years old my brothers picked the lock on my diary and read it and then blabbed my secrets to my mother and father. I hated my brothers, and I hated writing. It would be a long time before I again wrote for myself.
I rediscovered personal writing in my twenties, during a time in my life when I felt safe from anyone who would steal my thoughts. At twenty-three I had a job cleaning houses. I was a Merry Maid. I hurt my back moving a piece of furniture, and bulged a disc. Needless to say, that was a not a merry day for me. While I was still recovering from that injury, a seventy-three-year-old man ran a red light and crashed his Lincoln Continental into my Chevy Cavalier’s driver’s side door spinning my car around four times, the car stopping on a curb facing the opposite direction from where I started spinning. I’m still dizzy. Occasionally I suffer brutal dizzy spells. Along with the head injury, came severe back and neck injuries. For ten years, I couldn’t do much physically. When you can’t do much physically, you think that there isn’t much of anything that you can do, but you end up finding out that there is one thing that you can do, and you do a lot of it and you do it well: you think. As the hours drag on, you think, and you think, and you think. All my thinking brought back memories of what I did best during my school years. I always did well with any subject that involved writing. This revelation made me decide to pursue writing.
Years later in my professional writing master’s program, I found my pen—and my niche—resting in creative non-fiction narrative. I also discovered a liking for Composition and Rhetoric, and a desire to teach writing. Hopefully, my current participation in a Composition Ph.D program will allow me to share my love of writing with others. I want students to love writing the way I do, although I know many probably will not, and that’s OK. If they can just learn to breathe, smell and taste the sweetness and bitterness of each word they write and read I will be content. I want them to know that in that sweetness and bitterness lies freedom—and that sweet liberty can be found in the process of writing—and it can result in the writer and/or the reader experiencing healing.
Writing heals. Writing is a long sought-after curative. Like an old witch doctor’s remedy brewing ever so slowly over a fire awaiting its recipient’s ailment, the making of the cure is a process. Sometimes that process is slow in the making or sometimes speedy. Either way, it’s a progression. The process of writing and healing is the same: a progression. Treading through these progressions, I discover who I am and the reasons why things happen as they do. Sometimes I discover these things slowly, sometimes quickly. Writing about my father has helped me understand him and has brought me to a transcendental place of peace and forgiveness. I no longer hate my father. Writing about him has allowed me to find truth and meaning in his life and to see how his truth and meaning relates to mine. Finding truth and meaning through my writing makes me feel like a philosopher who is pondering the deepest, most difficult questions that one can ask of one’s reality. Just as philosophers search for truth and meaning, so do writers. Writers are the truth seekers and truth bearers of society. They present their findings to their audience, not with the intent to push their own truth on their audience, but in the hopes that the audience will find their own individual truth and meaning in the writer’s words. While this truth searching has the potential to bring healing, it can also lead to frustration. But as my psychiatrist said, you need to travel through the place of suffering before you can get to the place of peace.
Truth and meaning: what huge concepts to wrap my brain around—it takes more than using just my brain to understand them. It takes using my whole body, my whole mind, my whole heart and my whole soul to even attempt to fully comprehend these concepts. And I probably never will fully comprehend them. I am led to acknowledge that my truth is my truth only, no one else’s. Even if my best friend has my same set of beliefs and values we know and experience them uniquely. There is no single definition of the concepts of truth and meaning; however, there is conformity as to how truth is presented. According to Thomas A. Schwandt, “There is general agreement that what is true or what carries truth are statements, propositions, beliefs, and assertions, but how the truth of same is established is widely debated” (259). With that said, let us now consider the concept of meaning. Meaning is closely related to truth and just as complex. Who is to say what has meaning and what that meaning is? Interpretivists believe “that the meaning of action is fixed, finished, and complete and thus, in principle, determinable or discoverable by the inquirer” (Schwandt 155). My story above about my father will mean certain things to me and different things to each reader (the inquirer) depending upon each reader’s life experiences. I know the truths behind my writings; however, I want the reader to discover his or her own truths as his or her own, not mine. I am just a guide opening a tunnel of thought that the reader needs to travel through alone.
Scholars will most likely never agree on a single definition for truth and meaning. But in the same way that unity is found in deciding where truth is presented, there is also agreement on the questions that are proposed in an effort to reach a definition: What is truth? How is truth identified? Is truth absolute, relative, objective, or subjective? What is the meaning of truth? These are all questions asked by philosophers. Thinking of how I need to employ the wholes of my body, mind, heart and soul in attempting to grasp an understanding of truth and meaning reminds me of what I was taught in my childhood religion classes at St. Teresa of Avila school. My Baltimore Catechism taught me that my purpose on earth is to know God, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in heaven, and I am to do that with all my body, mind, heart and soul. I remember my little grade school mind being mesmerized by the thought that my mind was capable of reaching outside my familiar surroundings into the mysterious unknown (heaven) in a search for great mystical truths. To think that I could get closer to the Divine by just thinking amazed me. I did much of my thinking while looking outside my classroom’s long windows at the tall trees that touched the sky that led to the place where the Divine was said to live: heaven. There just had to be something divine beyond those lovely puffy clouds that looked like giant cotton balls. I remember imagining myself sitting on one of those clouds questioning God. Just as I did looking out those windows in my religion classes, I believe every person regardless of their faith (or lack of faith) searches for truth and meaning looking out their own window. Whether you believe in God or not, the natural law leads us down a road of self-discovery. Natural law claims that all law is derived from nature and/or a supreme being, depending upon the person’s belief system. I consider the act of writing a spiritual experience, which leads writers and readers to discovering what their relationship is to the natural law.
In my limited study of composition and rhetoric, I am drawn to classical philosophers such as Saint Augustine and Saint Thomas Aquinas, who connected their ideas to the Divine, and to Plato and his student Aristotle, who searched for transcendental truth through reality and reason. Augustine claims that we are sent here by someone greater than we are and that we are on a continuous search to know who sent us, and Aquinas claimed that natural law is attributable to divine providence. Aristotle believed in a balance between reality/science and transcendentalism while Plato believed there is a spiritual world beyond what we find on earth. Studying the works of these classical philosophers can lead readers to spiritual awakenings. Their words can reach into and revive the depths of a reader’s soul, which makes sense since supposedly the soul is where the Divine deposits its seed. A well-written piece of writing has the potential to water that seed and make it grow. Plato believed that “We can recognize it [transcendental truth] because we somehow ‘knew’ it before our birth, when our souls were with the Divine” (Bizzell & Herzberg 55). Writing can take the writer and the reader of that writing on a hallowed journey with each reader finding a completely different set of truths and meanings from the same piece of writing. I submit that the writers of today are philosophers, and like the classical philosophers of old we modern day philosophers also struggle with the concepts of truth and meaning. If classical philosophers wrestled with the ideas of truth and meaning, why should I be surprised that a neophyte philosopher such as myself has trouble defining and understanding these concepts? While writers and philosophers have differing views of truth and meaning, I am surprised, yet comforted, by the similarities I find among the methods used by philosophers and writers as they attempt to find an understanding of truth and meaning. Examining this surprise can only aid me in my future role as a teacher of writing’s healing abilities.
Like many philosophers (and writers), Aristotle was concerned with reaching transcendent truth. Aristotle “treats rhetoric as legitimately appealing to the whole person, not just to the ‘rational being’ alone” (Bizzell & Herzberg 146). The whole person consists of both physical and spiritual properties. Transcendental truth is the pursuit of a relationship with the Divine, a feeling that you are one with your creator. This feeling can last for a fleeting moment or for hours. The patron saint of my grammar school, St. Teresa of Avila, experienced this feeling and described it in her famous biography, The Interior Castle. After reading many of her writings, including her biography, I consider Teresa of Avila to be a great truth-seeker, as does the Catholic Church. Pope Paul VI named her the first female “Doctor of the Church.” This title is bestowed upon those whose writings have immensely influenced church theology. She reportedly had mystical experiences. When I was nineteen, on a trip to Italy, I was in the Cornaro Chapel in Rome, and I saw Teresa’s relationship to the Divine captured in the famous statue, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, by Bernini. After researching Aquinas for this essay, I was struck by the Thomist views I have encountered reading Teresa’s writings. When I came across the following piece of writing in my research, I was pleased that my inclination to view Teresa as Thomist was substantiated:
St. Teresa's position among writers on mystical theology is unique. In all her writings on this subject she deals with her personal experiences, which a deep insight and analytical gifts enabled her to explain clearly. The Thomistic substratum may be traced to the influence of her confessors and directors, many of whom belonged to the Dominican Order. ("St. Teresa of Avila")
Thomas Aquinas was a medieval Dominican. As any good narrative writer does, Teresa personally wrote about her experience with detailed simplicity and emotion:
Beside me on the left appeared an angel in bodily form . . . He was not tall but short, and very beautiful; and his face was so aflame that he appeared to be one of the highest ranks of angels, who seem to be all on fire . . . In his hands I saw a great golden spear, and at the iron tip there appeared to be a point of fire. This he plunged into my heart several times so that it penetrated my entrails. When he pulled it out I felt that he took them with it, and left me utterly consumed by the great love of God. The pain was so severe that it made me utter several moans. The sweetness caused by this intense pain is so extreme that one cannot possibly wish it to cease, nor is one's soul content with anything but God. This is not a physical but a spiritual pain, though the body has some share in it -- even a considerable share. ("Art and Architecture of Venice Cornaro Chapel")
Teresa of Avila was a simple and straightforward woman. Her book, The Way of Perfection, is described this way: “Although it is a work of sublime mystical beauty, its outstanding hallmark is its simplicity which instructs, exhorts, and inspires all those who are seeking a more perfect way of life” ("Catholic Information Center on the Web"). Aristotle would most likely approve. He recommended that simplicity was needed at times in order to reach an audience. In his Rhetoric Aristotle states, “It is this simplicity that makes the uneducated more effective than the educated when addressing popular audiences -- makes them, as the poets tell us, ‘charm the crowd's ears more finely’” (Aristotle’s Rhetoric). Teresa of Avila was a seeker of truth and meaning—the same as Aristotle, Plato, Augustine and Aquinas were, and like them, Teresa always desired to teach and keep the higher good of her audience in mind. She did this with passion and feeling while maintaining an artistic style to her writing.
Aristotle considered rhetoric an art, and he felt that good rhetoric is not only persuasive but also ethical and reasonable. Aristotle thought that all public speeches are made up of a balance of three rhetorical proofs: ethos (ethical), pathos (emotional), and logos (logical) (Bizzell 145). Ethos relates to character. According to J. Michael Halloran, “The speaker (or writer) must understand ethos in order to create in his audience a strong and favorable impression of his own character” (60). Pathos appeals to the emotions of the audience. Such an appeal attempts to create any number of emotions, including fear, sadness, contentment, joy and pride. Pathos does not concern the veracity of the argument, only its appeal (“Rhetorica”). Logos is appealing to your audience based on logic or reason, but it is “more than a simple argument based on logic, logos refer to thought plus action” ("Logos Press Thoughts Plus Action"). Let us apply these concepts to the art of writing. And yes, I did refer to writing as an art. As Aristotle considered rhetoric an art, I consider writing an art form. Good writers should consider the same principles Aristotle used as a rhetorician when writing. Writers should want to appeal simply to the emotions (pathos) of their audiences, and by choosing values or emotions that the writer relates to personally the writer will gain credibility (ethos) with the audience, and by using logical aruguments (logos) to persuade readers, the writers’ words will result in the readers believing what they read.
Augustine prescribed similar proofs. Augustine believed that rhetoric should be capable of “pleasing, teaching, and persuading or moving to action” (Bizzell & Herzberg 382). I am in good company with my deeply-held belief that writing is healing: “Augustine suggests that our worldly journey to blessedness should be a cleansing or healing process. God ‘cures’ our impurities with the ‘medicine’ of his word. Augustine says that God is to Christ as our thoughts are to our words” (Bizzell & Herzberg 383). Augustine also cautions not to rely too much on logic and not to deceive your audience:
One may, unfortunately, have one without the other, and it is better to have truth than logic. Similarly, says Augustine, to study rhetoric or the “rules of eloquence” is to point out how God has made human nature amenable to persuasion. ‘Men did not themselves institute the fact that an expression of charity conciliates an audience,’ says Augustine. But one should take care not to use these rules to persuade people to falsehood. (Bizzell & Herzberg 384)
Aquinas also believed that truth is crucial, but that it has to be combined with reason. Steven Kreis stated in a lecture that, “As Aquinas himself put it: ‘whatever is known is known in the manner in which man can know it’” (Kreis). When writers think in the manner that Aquinas did their thoughts turn into more meaningful words on paper. The old writer’s adage “write what you know” makes sense when you absorb what Aquinas said. The Stanford Encyclopedia’s entry on Aquinas proposes what makes a good philosopher:
The proper philosopher may be thought to be someone — perhaps merely some mind — without antecedents or history who first comes to consciousness posing a philosophical question the answer to which is pursued without prejudice. But of course no human being and thus no philosopher is pure reason, mind alone, without previous history as he embarks on the task of philosophizing ("Saint Thomas Aquinas").
This can also be a definition of what makes a proper writer. Writers come to their work with the same baggage (antecedents) as philosophers do. In Writing As A Way Of Healing author Louise DeSalvo states:
In Creativity as Repair, Andrew Brink has observed that the impulse to create usually comes from some early damage to the self. Doubt, pain, trauma, insecurity, uncertainty—these feelings are the fuel that drive the creative process. This wound or loss initiates a life’s work of healing, ‘of trying to make right what early went wrong.’ Writing, then, uses language to repair psychic wounds. (33-35)
I started this essay with a story about my father. Along the way, I described how writing about him has enabled me to connect his truth to my truth. I sat at table with the wise Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, Aquinas, and Teresa of Avila. My time with them was enlightening. I saw how each was connected to the other. Plato mentored Aristotle, both Augustine and Aquinas respected Plato and Aristotle; Aquinas simply referred to Aristotle as “The Philosopher,” (Kreis) and Teresa of Avila was Thomist in her views. As they were connected to each other, I am connected to my father. Two quotes from Aristotle come to mind: “To run away from trouble is a form of cowardice and, while it is true that the suicide braves death, he does it not for some noble object but to escape some ill.” Moreover, “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” My father was an artist. I am an artist. He used a paintbrush. I use a pen. He did not see the light. I do. He did not heal. I did. I just wish that his paintbrush healed him the way my pen has healed me.
Works Cited
"Art and Architecture of Venice Cornaro Chapel." 1997. 30 Nov. 2006
Bizzell, Patricia, and Bruce Herzberg. The Rhetorical Tradition. Boston: Bedford Books of St. Martin’S P, 1990.
"Book II Chapter 22." Aristotle's Rhetoric. 2004. 1 Dec. 2006
"Catholic Information Center on the Web." 2006. Catholic First. 29 Nov. 2006
Desalvo, Louise. Writing as a Way of Healing; How Telling Our Stories Transforms Our Lives. Boston: Beacon P, 1999.
Halloran, Michael S. "Aristotle's Concept of Ethos or If Not His Somebody Elses." Rhetoric Review 1 (1982). JSTOR. 1 Dec. 2006.
Kreis, Steven. "Lecture 28 Aquinas and Dante." Lectures on Ancient and Medieval History. 2006. The History Guide. 29 Nov. 2006
"Logos Press Thoughts Plus Action." Logos Press. 29 Nov. 2006
"Rhetorica." The Rhetorica Network. 1 Dec. 2006
"Saint Thomas Aquinas." Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. 9 Jan. 2005. 1 Dec. 2006
Schwandt, Thomas A. Dictionary of Qualitative Inquiry Second Edition. 2nd ed. California: Sage Publications, 2001.
"St. Teresa of Avila." New Advent Catholic Encyclopedia 2003. 1 Dec. 2006
Note to self: MAM, that was so stupid of you to accept a 4th teaching job. Why did you not realize paperwork came along with teaching jobs? STUPID DUMB MAM! Bad Bad MAM! Never do that again, MAM!
Felling guilty (although I really have nothing to feel guilty about) made me look in my computer files for papers I wrote during my PhD coursework period. However, I really want to read the hard copies with the teachers comments on them but they are in the dreaded box and it is late (11:20pm), my feet have ice packs on them, and I do not have the energy to go lift the lid to that heavy box. So I did the next best thing. I pulled up a PhD paper from my computer to reread. I must say I cannot believe I wrote this paper in such a short amount of time. I do not recommend cramming PhD coursework into one year. Everything I did was so rushed. I'm amazed I pulled it off. And that was with working on top of studying. For those of you wondering what my interest is in, this paper will give you some insight. If I can ever get my juices flowing again (and time ends up on my side) my dissertation will explore how writing is a healing mechanism.
The following paper was one of the first papers I wrote in my program. I'm happy to say the paper received an A, which I admit was unexpected. I always expect the worst, so an A wasn't even on my radar. I considered the grade a gift. It gave me the needed confidence to continue on. :) I remember calling my closest friends and my mother squealing with relief and delight over my grade. Eveything you did in grad school seemed to have so much pressure attached to it. Unless you have gone through it, it's hard to explain.
Anyway, here is copy of the paper. I'm not even sure if this was the final version I turned in. I won't know that until I open up the box and read the hard copy. :) Rereading this one I see some punctuation errors I hope I didn't have in the final version.
Dr. Ben Rafoth
English 800
3 December 2006
Narrating My Way to Healing Truth and Meaning:
A Philosophical Approach
Thursday of this week would have been my father’s eighty-second birthday. My father died when he was fifty-six years old. Why do I still remember his birthday year after year? It’s not as though I liked him and have fond memories of him. I hated him. When I was a teenager, I got down on my knees every night and begged God, “Please make Dad die of a heart attack or something.”
When I was fifteen, my mother asked me through her sobbing, “Mary Alice, should I leave him?”
I answered, “Of course you should. He’s terrible.”
At eighteen-years old, my prayers were finally answered, just not in a way I expected. After two years of my father being legally separated from my mother, and a judge placing a restraining order on him to stay away from me, and being estranged from my four older brothers, my father decided that he couldn’t take one more day of living. He committed suicide. What he loved more than his family finally exerted its full supremacy over him. He was found in a room in the Hotel Sonesta in the city of Boston, my hometown. The room had a soft hazy early morning summer view of the Charles River. Harvard’s crew team was rowing through one of their daily morning practices on the river. The rowers had no idea that when they looked up at the hotel’s windows between rowing a stunned maid was figuring out what to do with the dead body she had just found—definitely not a good way for a maid to begin her work day. Resting by my father’s middle-aged body was a piece of paper with words scribbled in blue ink on it, a pen, a bottle of pills and a bottle of alcohol. Actually, I think the suicide note was lying on his protruding belly. I do not know what kind of alcohol was in the bottle. I wish I could find that maid and ask her. I want to know. I wonder if it was that dark Heineken that he loved more than me.
Are you thinking, “Why is Mary Alice telling me this?” Or, are you thinking, “I sure wish Mary Alice would keep her private thoughts to herself,” or maybe you are thinking, “Mary Alice needs therapy.” I do not need therapy. Not anymore. I’ve been there and done that—five years of psychiatry—from age fifteen to twenty. It helped. One thing my psychiatrist told me to do was to write. She used to tell me to write my feelings and thoughts because the act of writing would help me heal. I resisted her advice. Back then, I just could not write. I couldn’t write because when I was twelve-years old my brothers picked the lock on my diary and read it and then blabbed my secrets to my mother and father. I hated my brothers, and I hated writing. It would be a long time before I again wrote for myself.
I rediscovered personal writing in my twenties, during a time in my life when I felt safe from anyone who would steal my thoughts. At twenty-three I had a job cleaning houses. I was a Merry Maid. I hurt my back moving a piece of furniture, and bulged a disc. Needless to say, that was a not a merry day for me. While I was still recovering from that injury, a seventy-three-year-old man ran a red light and crashed his Lincoln Continental into my Chevy Cavalier’s driver’s side door spinning my car around four times, the car stopping on a curb facing the opposite direction from where I started spinning. I’m still dizzy. Occasionally I suffer brutal dizzy spells. Along with the head injury, came severe back and neck injuries. For ten years, I couldn’t do much physically. When you can’t do much physically, you think that there isn’t much of anything that you can do, but you end up finding out that there is one thing that you can do, and you do a lot of it and you do it well: you think. As the hours drag on, you think, and you think, and you think. All my thinking brought back memories of what I did best during my school years. I always did well with any subject that involved writing. This revelation made me decide to pursue writing.
Years later in my professional writing master’s program, I found my pen—and my niche—resting in creative non-fiction narrative. I also discovered a liking for Composition and Rhetoric, and a desire to teach writing. Hopefully, my current participation in a Composition Ph.D program will allow me to share my love of writing with others. I want students to love writing the way I do, although I know many probably will not, and that’s OK. If they can just learn to breathe, smell and taste the sweetness and bitterness of each word they write and read I will be content. I want them to know that in that sweetness and bitterness lies freedom—and that sweet liberty can be found in the process of writing—and it can result in the writer and/or the reader experiencing healing.
Writing heals. Writing is a long sought-after curative. Like an old witch doctor’s remedy brewing ever so slowly over a fire awaiting its recipient’s ailment, the making of the cure is a process. Sometimes that process is slow in the making or sometimes speedy. Either way, it’s a progression. The process of writing and healing is the same: a progression. Treading through these progressions, I discover who I am and the reasons why things happen as they do. Sometimes I discover these things slowly, sometimes quickly. Writing about my father has helped me understand him and has brought me to a transcendental place of peace and forgiveness. I no longer hate my father. Writing about him has allowed me to find truth and meaning in his life and to see how his truth and meaning relates to mine. Finding truth and meaning through my writing makes me feel like a philosopher who is pondering the deepest, most difficult questions that one can ask of one’s reality. Just as philosophers search for truth and meaning, so do writers. Writers are the truth seekers and truth bearers of society. They present their findings to their audience, not with the intent to push their own truth on their audience, but in the hopes that the audience will find their own individual truth and meaning in the writer’s words. While this truth searching has the potential to bring healing, it can also lead to frustration. But as my psychiatrist said, you need to travel through the place of suffering before you can get to the place of peace.
Truth and meaning: what huge concepts to wrap my brain around—it takes more than using just my brain to understand them. It takes using my whole body, my whole mind, my whole heart and my whole soul to even attempt to fully comprehend these concepts. And I probably never will fully comprehend them. I am led to acknowledge that my truth is my truth only, no one else’s. Even if my best friend has my same set of beliefs and values we know and experience them uniquely. There is no single definition of the concepts of truth and meaning; however, there is conformity as to how truth is presented. According to Thomas A. Schwandt, “There is general agreement that what is true or what carries truth are statements, propositions, beliefs, and assertions, but how the truth of same is established is widely debated” (259). With that said, let us now consider the concept of meaning. Meaning is closely related to truth and just as complex. Who is to say what has meaning and what that meaning is? Interpretivists believe “that the meaning of action is fixed, finished, and complete and thus, in principle, determinable or discoverable by the inquirer” (Schwandt 155). My story above about my father will mean certain things to me and different things to each reader (the inquirer) depending upon each reader’s life experiences. I know the truths behind my writings; however, I want the reader to discover his or her own truths as his or her own, not mine. I am just a guide opening a tunnel of thought that the reader needs to travel through alone.
Scholars will most likely never agree on a single definition for truth and meaning. But in the same way that unity is found in deciding where truth is presented, there is also agreement on the questions that are proposed in an effort to reach a definition: What is truth? How is truth identified? Is truth absolute, relative, objective, or subjective? What is the meaning of truth? These are all questions asked by philosophers. Thinking of how I need to employ the wholes of my body, mind, heart and soul in attempting to grasp an understanding of truth and meaning reminds me of what I was taught in my childhood religion classes at St. Teresa of Avila school. My Baltimore Catechism taught me that my purpose on earth is to know God, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in heaven, and I am to do that with all my body, mind, heart and soul. I remember my little grade school mind being mesmerized by the thought that my mind was capable of reaching outside my familiar surroundings into the mysterious unknown (heaven) in a search for great mystical truths. To think that I could get closer to the Divine by just thinking amazed me. I did much of my thinking while looking outside my classroom’s long windows at the tall trees that touched the sky that led to the place where the Divine was said to live: heaven. There just had to be something divine beyond those lovely puffy clouds that looked like giant cotton balls. I remember imagining myself sitting on one of those clouds questioning God. Just as I did looking out those windows in my religion classes, I believe every person regardless of their faith (or lack of faith) searches for truth and meaning looking out their own window. Whether you believe in God or not, the natural law leads us down a road of self-discovery. Natural law claims that all law is derived from nature and/or a supreme being, depending upon the person’s belief system. I consider the act of writing a spiritual experience, which leads writers and readers to discovering what their relationship is to the natural law.
In my limited study of composition and rhetoric, I am drawn to classical philosophers such as Saint Augustine and Saint Thomas Aquinas, who connected their ideas to the Divine, and to Plato and his student Aristotle, who searched for transcendental truth through reality and reason. Augustine claims that we are sent here by someone greater than we are and that we are on a continuous search to know who sent us, and Aquinas claimed that natural law is attributable to divine providence. Aristotle believed in a balance between reality/science and transcendentalism while Plato believed there is a spiritual world beyond what we find on earth. Studying the works of these classical philosophers can lead readers to spiritual awakenings. Their words can reach into and revive the depths of a reader’s soul, which makes sense since supposedly the soul is where the Divine deposits its seed. A well-written piece of writing has the potential to water that seed and make it grow. Plato believed that “We can recognize it [transcendental truth] because we somehow ‘knew’ it before our birth, when our souls were with the Divine” (Bizzell & Herzberg 55). Writing can take the writer and the reader of that writing on a hallowed journey with each reader finding a completely different set of truths and meanings from the same piece of writing. I submit that the writers of today are philosophers, and like the classical philosophers of old we modern day philosophers also struggle with the concepts of truth and meaning. If classical philosophers wrestled with the ideas of truth and meaning, why should I be surprised that a neophyte philosopher such as myself has trouble defining and understanding these concepts? While writers and philosophers have differing views of truth and meaning, I am surprised, yet comforted, by the similarities I find among the methods used by philosophers and writers as they attempt to find an understanding of truth and meaning. Examining this surprise can only aid me in my future role as a teacher of writing’s healing abilities.
Like many philosophers (and writers), Aristotle was concerned with reaching transcendent truth. Aristotle “treats rhetoric as legitimately appealing to the whole person, not just to the ‘rational being’ alone” (Bizzell & Herzberg 146). The whole person consists of both physical and spiritual properties. Transcendental truth is the pursuit of a relationship with the Divine, a feeling that you are one with your creator. This feeling can last for a fleeting moment or for hours. The patron saint of my grammar school, St. Teresa of Avila, experienced this feeling and described it in her famous biography, The Interior Castle. After reading many of her writings, including her biography, I consider Teresa of Avila to be a great truth-seeker, as does the Catholic Church. Pope Paul VI named her the first female “Doctor of the Church.” This title is bestowed upon those whose writings have immensely influenced church theology. She reportedly had mystical experiences. When I was nineteen, on a trip to Italy, I was in the Cornaro Chapel in Rome, and I saw Teresa’s relationship to the Divine captured in the famous statue, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, by Bernini. After researching Aquinas for this essay, I was struck by the Thomist views I have encountered reading Teresa’s writings. When I came across the following piece of writing in my research, I was pleased that my inclination to view Teresa as Thomist was substantiated:
St. Teresa's position among writers on mystical theology is unique. In all her writings on this subject she deals with her personal experiences, which a deep insight and analytical gifts enabled her to explain clearly. The Thomistic substratum may be traced to the influence of her confessors and directors, many of whom belonged to the Dominican Order. ("St. Teresa of Avila")
Thomas Aquinas was a medieval Dominican. As any good narrative writer does, Teresa personally wrote about her experience with detailed simplicity and emotion:
Beside me on the left appeared an angel in bodily form . . . He was not tall but short, and very beautiful; and his face was so aflame that he appeared to be one of the highest ranks of angels, who seem to be all on fire . . . In his hands I saw a great golden spear, and at the iron tip there appeared to be a point of fire. This he plunged into my heart several times so that it penetrated my entrails. When he pulled it out I felt that he took them with it, and left me utterly consumed by the great love of God. The pain was so severe that it made me utter several moans. The sweetness caused by this intense pain is so extreme that one cannot possibly wish it to cease, nor is one's soul content with anything but God. This is not a physical but a spiritual pain, though the body has some share in it -- even a considerable share. ("Art and Architecture of Venice Cornaro Chapel")
Teresa of Avila was a simple and straightforward woman. Her book, The Way of Perfection, is described this way: “Although it is a work of sublime mystical beauty, its outstanding hallmark is its simplicity which instructs, exhorts, and inspires all those who are seeking a more perfect way of life” ("Catholic Information Center on the Web"). Aristotle would most likely approve. He recommended that simplicity was needed at times in order to reach an audience. In his Rhetoric Aristotle states, “It is this simplicity that makes the uneducated more effective than the educated when addressing popular audiences -- makes them, as the poets tell us, ‘charm the crowd's ears more finely’” (Aristotle’s Rhetoric). Teresa of Avila was a seeker of truth and meaning—the same as Aristotle, Plato, Augustine and Aquinas were, and like them, Teresa always desired to teach and keep the higher good of her audience in mind. She did this with passion and feeling while maintaining an artistic style to her writing.
Aristotle considered rhetoric an art, and he felt that good rhetoric is not only persuasive but also ethical and reasonable. Aristotle thought that all public speeches are made up of a balance of three rhetorical proofs: ethos (ethical), pathos (emotional), and logos (logical) (Bizzell 145). Ethos relates to character. According to J. Michael Halloran, “The speaker (or writer) must understand ethos in order to create in his audience a strong and favorable impression of his own character” (60). Pathos appeals to the emotions of the audience. Such an appeal attempts to create any number of emotions, including fear, sadness, contentment, joy and pride. Pathos does not concern the veracity of the argument, only its appeal (“Rhetorica”). Logos is appealing to your audience based on logic or reason, but it is “more than a simple argument based on logic, logos refer to thought plus action” ("Logos Press Thoughts Plus Action"). Let us apply these concepts to the art of writing. And yes, I did refer to writing as an art. As Aristotle considered rhetoric an art, I consider writing an art form. Good writers should consider the same principles Aristotle used as a rhetorician when writing. Writers should want to appeal simply to the emotions (pathos) of their audiences, and by choosing values or emotions that the writer relates to personally the writer will gain credibility (ethos) with the audience, and by using logical aruguments (logos) to persuade readers, the writers’ words will result in the readers believing what they read.
Augustine prescribed similar proofs. Augustine believed that rhetoric should be capable of “pleasing, teaching, and persuading or moving to action” (Bizzell & Herzberg 382). I am in good company with my deeply-held belief that writing is healing: “Augustine suggests that our worldly journey to blessedness should be a cleansing or healing process. God ‘cures’ our impurities with the ‘medicine’ of his word. Augustine says that God is to Christ as our thoughts are to our words” (Bizzell & Herzberg 383). Augustine also cautions not to rely too much on logic and not to deceive your audience:
One may, unfortunately, have one without the other, and it is better to have truth than logic. Similarly, says Augustine, to study rhetoric or the “rules of eloquence” is to point out how God has made human nature amenable to persuasion. ‘Men did not themselves institute the fact that an expression of charity conciliates an audience,’ says Augustine. But one should take care not to use these rules to persuade people to falsehood. (Bizzell & Herzberg 384)
Aquinas also believed that truth is crucial, but that it has to be combined with reason. Steven Kreis stated in a lecture that, “As Aquinas himself put it: ‘whatever is known is known in the manner in which man can know it’” (Kreis). When writers think in the manner that Aquinas did their thoughts turn into more meaningful words on paper. The old writer’s adage “write what you know” makes sense when you absorb what Aquinas said. The Stanford Encyclopedia’s entry on Aquinas proposes what makes a good philosopher:
The proper philosopher may be thought to be someone — perhaps merely some mind — without antecedents or history who first comes to consciousness posing a philosophical question the answer to which is pursued without prejudice. But of course no human being and thus no philosopher is pure reason, mind alone, without previous history as he embarks on the task of philosophizing ("Saint Thomas Aquinas").
This can also be a definition of what makes a proper writer. Writers come to their work with the same baggage (antecedents) as philosophers do. In Writing As A Way Of Healing author Louise DeSalvo states:
In Creativity as Repair, Andrew Brink has observed that the impulse to create usually comes from some early damage to the self. Doubt, pain, trauma, insecurity, uncertainty—these feelings are the fuel that drive the creative process. This wound or loss initiates a life’s work of healing, ‘of trying to make right what early went wrong.’ Writing, then, uses language to repair psychic wounds. (33-35)
I started this essay with a story about my father. Along the way, I described how writing about him has enabled me to connect his truth to my truth. I sat at table with the wise Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, Aquinas, and Teresa of Avila. My time with them was enlightening. I saw how each was connected to the other. Plato mentored Aristotle, both Augustine and Aquinas respected Plato and Aristotle; Aquinas simply referred to Aristotle as “The Philosopher,” (Kreis) and Teresa of Avila was Thomist in her views. As they were connected to each other, I am connected to my father. Two quotes from Aristotle come to mind: “To run away from trouble is a form of cowardice and, while it is true that the suicide braves death, he does it not for some noble object but to escape some ill.” Moreover, “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” My father was an artist. I am an artist. He used a paintbrush. I use a pen. He did not see the light. I do. He did not heal. I did. I just wish that his paintbrush healed him the way my pen has healed me.
Works Cited
"Art and Architecture of Venice Cornaro Chapel." 1997. 30 Nov. 2006
Bizzell, Patricia, and Bruce Herzberg. The Rhetorical Tradition. Boston: Bedford Books of St. Martin’S P, 1990.
"Book II Chapter 22." Aristotle's Rhetoric. 2004. 1 Dec. 2006
"Catholic Information Center on the Web." 2006. Catholic First. 29 Nov. 2006
Desalvo, Louise. Writing as a Way of Healing; How Telling Our Stories Transforms Our Lives. Boston: Beacon P, 1999.
Halloran, Michael S. "Aristotle's Concept of Ethos or If Not His Somebody Elses." Rhetoric Review 1 (1982). JSTOR. 1 Dec. 2006.
Kreis, Steven. "Lecture 28 Aquinas and Dante." Lectures on Ancient and Medieval History. 2006. The History Guide. 29 Nov. 2006
"Logos Press Thoughts Plus Action." Logos Press. 29 Nov. 2006
"Rhetorica." The Rhetorica Network. 1 Dec. 2006
"Saint Thomas Aquinas." Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. 9 Jan. 2005. 1 Dec. 2006
Schwandt, Thomas A. Dictionary of Qualitative Inquiry Second Edition. 2nd ed. California: Sage Publications, 2001.
"St. Teresa of Avila." New Advent Catholic Encyclopedia 2003. 1 Dec. 2006
Until next blog,
Peace, MAM
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Thinkin' outside the box.
the box.
But the last few days the dred has diminished. I find myself wanting to open the box.
Stay tuned my mighty followers!
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Academic Junk Pile Up
Just in case any of you might be wondering, "Just what is all this academic junk that MAM needs to wade through?" Well, I shall show you --
![]()
![]()
![]()
![]()
See the box? That has all the PhD papers I wrote, handouts, journal articles, group projects, etc. One year of my life is in that box and it's overflowing. The rest of the junk is made up of notebooks and binders. I also have a little bit of my masters work among this mess. Some of that will come in handy too for my dissertation. This takes up two big shelves on a big bookshelf.
Oh, and what is above does not even include my textbooks, writing books, etc.
The first thing I'm going to do with all of this is go through the box and reread all my papers to get my mind back in academic mode. Then I will go through my notebooks and my syllabi. Then I will go through my masters papers to see what relates to my PhD dissertation topic.
The big ? is-- How fast will I get through this working 4 jobs 7 days a week? Oh, well. This semester is all about one tiny step at a time.
Oh, and what is above does not even include my textbooks, writing books, etc.
The first thing I'm going to do with all of this is go through the box and reread all my papers to get my mind back in academic mode. Then I will go through my notebooks and my syllabi. Then I will go through my masters papers to see what relates to my PhD dissertation topic.
The big ? is-- How fast will I get through this working 4 jobs 7 days a week? Oh, well. This semester is all about one tiny step at a time.
"Every day you may make progress. Every step may be fruitful. Yet there will stretch out before you an ever-lengthening, ever-ascending, ever-improving path. You know you will never get to the end of the journey. But this, so far from discouraging, only adds to the joy and glory of the climb.”
Winston Churchill
My friend Jilda left me a voice mail recently that went like this-- "Hey Mary Alice, Has working four jobs driven you insane yet? What? Three jobs wasn't enough for you?" Now, coming from a New Yorker such as Jilda this message is a little worrisome. Jilda moves at a very fast clip and is concerned that I might be going insane. When a New Yorker who fights Manhattan holiday crowds, the Bronx subways and busses starts expressing concern that maybe your life is going at a fast pace, you take notice. Hmmm...
"One step at a time is all that's possible - even when those steps are taken on the run".
Anne W. Schaef
It warms my heart to know Jilda is thinking about me. It's nice to have friends who want to walk this walk with me and who are hoping I succeed. Without their encouragement, this walk would be lonely. I would not even take these steps. Jilda's one small message put a little skip in my small step.
"One step at a time is good walking”
Chinese Proverb
Peace, MAM :)
Thursday, October 1, 2009
One Small Step
Well, it is October 1st and I have come to accept that this semester I can only take my life a day at a time. I have way too many jobs and too little time. I have come to realize that there are certain days of the week that I cannot think about dissertating. Wednesdays and Thursdays are exhausting and I am completely brain dead come 9pm. On Wednesdays I work three jobs and on Thursdays I am up early and work two jobs and then need to be back up early Friday morning to do it all over again. I am figuring out that the days I need to take off from anything related to dissertating are Wednesdays and Thursdays (Does this blog count?). I can only do what I can do this semester. Life just gets in the way.
![]()
I like the quotes I used in this post. They are attributed to Saint Therese of Lisieux--The Little Flower. Today is her feast day, and I have been researching her tonight. http://www.ewtn.com/Therese/therese.htm
Since she was known as the saint of little ways and small things, I will take my dissertation process one small step at a time and rejoice in each small step, however small, as a monumental victory.
Peace, MAM :)
Due to my history I tend to get agitated at the pace my life takes. I always feel like I am playing catch up. I am always behind what is considered normal behavior for my stage of life, whatever that "normal" may be. I lost my teenage years to family dysfunction, lost my college years until early 30's to recovering from a car accident, and feel like I am losing my 40's to PhD Piled High and Deep anxiety. I need to accept that I have four years left to do this dissertation, and if something horrible happens a dissertator can always ask for an extension, not that I want or plan to do that. But at least that option is there if the worst happens.Besides, the older I get the more I think about my mortality. I could be dead in an hour, so why I am worried or spending one ounce of energy thinking about tomorrow, let alone four years from now?
Does anyone else out there think about their mortality? I think about it a lot. But this is nothing new for me. I have always thought a lot about it. I'm surprised when I find people who don't think about it much. Death has never frightened me. For some reason I have always felt that it is a friend. But now that I am what is called "middle aged" I find myself feeling like I am playing catch up all over the place. Dying doesn't scare me. It's the living that is scary. Since I am not married and have no children it's thoughts of who will take care of me if I become chronically ill that frighten me.
"Let us see life as it really is...It is a moment between two eternities..."
Well, I think have digressed from the direction I thought this post was going. Hmmmm.
I have been thinking about how this blog might actually end up in my dissertation. My topic is Writing for Healing Purposes, and since this blog is getting my mind and fingers back into the "writing" mindset I do think this blogging exercise of unleashing my fears, anxieties, and paranoias will provide much needed sweet healing power. I need to forget about the past and the future and just concentrate on this moment. With that said, I will allow myself to say this about my future: If my teaching jobs continue in January, I will have to go on reserve on my 4th part time job to free up some time. I can't quit my 4th job now because I do have to have a backup if both or one of my teaching jobs end. But the good news is I can list myself as reserve next semester on that job and only work when I feel like it. That will free up some time. But here I go thinking about tomorrow. Stop STOP Stop it right now, Mary Alice!
"When we yield to discouragement it is usually because we give too much thought to the past and to the future."
I like the quotes I used in this post. They are attributed to Saint Therese of Lisieux--The Little Flower. Today is her feast day, and I have been researching her tonight. http://www.ewtn.com/Therese/therese.htm
Since she was known as the saint of little ways and small things, I will take my dissertation process one small step at a time and rejoice in each small step, however small, as a monumental victory.
Peace, MAM :)
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Plans Go Funny
How does that saying go? You know, the one about plans and God. “If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.” Did you know that Woody Allen came up with this quote? I didn't. While doing a google search, I learned that he penned this quote Makes me go--hmmmmmmmmmmm. I had great plans for the past two weeks, but I didn't get as much done as I had hoped. Woody being a writer/actor/director must have given him insight into the whole plan thing.
I also planned great things for this semester. But a voice mail from a guy I didn't know is probably going to put a crinkle in my plans. I fear plans are (once again) going astray. I was offered another teaching job. And I accepted. So we can add this new job to the three jobs I already have. Dissertation time was already hard to find.
Let's make a check list of my jobs:
What? This isn't high intermediate? Oh, you are Intermediate Beginning students? Opps. Ah, OK, well class is canceled then. :)
Zoe left me some good tips in my previous blog posting. I like her ideas for approaching my massive dissertation project. Here's what she said:
One thing to consider is breaking down these plans even further. For example, for sorting your PhD computer files, do it by task or time. You could decide that for one hour each day this week you will sort the files. Make an appt with yourself to do so, just as you make an appt for everything else - gym, Mass, work, etc. Put it in whatever schedule/to-do list/calender you keep. Treat it as an appt with an allotted amount of time. Do the same with other tasks - give them timelines, deadlines, and break them down into more bite-size pieces where possible.
Since she is by trade a life coach I take her tips seriously. For those of you who like what she had to say check out her site: The Integrated Woman Zoe is full of helpful tips for the woman who is juggling life.
Anyway, I did what she said. I broke some projects up into small tasks.
I also planned great things for this semester. But a voice mail from a guy I didn't know is probably going to put a crinkle in my plans. I fear plans are (once again) going astray. I was offered another teaching job. And I accepted. So we can add this new job to the three jobs I already have. Dissertation time was already hard to find.
Let's make a check list of my jobs:
- Full-time (mostly) online writing coordinator and advisor for UMUC's Effective Writing Center.
- Part-time e-structor for SMARTHINKING.com
- ESL instructor for refugees and asylees 3 mornings per week.
- ESL instructor for Latino coummunity 2 nights per week.
Zoe left me some good tips in my previous blog posting. I like her ideas for approaching my massive dissertation project. Here's what she said:
One thing to consider is breaking down these plans even further. For example, for sorting your PhD computer files, do it by task or time. You could decide that for one hour each day this week you will sort the files. Make an appt with yourself to do so, just as you make an appt for everything else - gym, Mass, work, etc. Put it in whatever schedule/to-do list/calender you keep. Treat it as an appt with an allotted amount of time. Do the same with other tasks - give them timelines, deadlines, and break them down into more bite-size pieces where possible.
Since she is by trade a life coach I take her tips seriously. For those of you who like what she had to say check out her site: The Integrated Woman Zoe is full of helpful tips for the woman who is juggling life.
Anyway, I did what she said. I broke some projects up into small tasks.
- I went through my laptop's favorites lists and catalogued all those I saved over the last few years that relate to my research.
- I cleaned out my laptop.
- I looked over a classmate's webpage regarding his dissertation.
- I got my IUP VPN working so now I can connect to research sites, journals, and libraries.
- I paid my tuition bill. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
All great masters are chiefly distinguished by the power of adding a second, a third, and perhaps a fourth step in a continuous line. Many a man had taken the first step. With every additional step you enhance immensely the value of your first.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
I think I'm on my way. But it just might be a very slow ride this semester. I asked God for some work to pay the rent. He made me wait a long time for my answer, but when He answered He gave me more than I hoped for. God is funny that way. I now have 4 jobs and less time. AHHHHH. I can't say I'm surprised. It seems to be pattern in my life. I'm glad God is funny because I laugh at Him all the time.
Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee And I'll forgive Thy great big one on me. - Robert Frost
Let's see. What else has happened since my last blog. Oh, Howard, my homeless guy finally reappeared on the corner. He saw me coming a block away and started waving. He also bowed respectfully yet dramtically to me. He has never bowed to me before. Our relationship is deepening. :) I asked him, "Howard, where have ya' been?" He said, "I had to go home. And I'll be gone again for awhile soon. A family member passed." I said, "Oh, I'm sorry. A brother or a sister?" He said, "Like a sister, My mother raised others too." I said, "Your mother was a good mother." He smiled real big and said, "Yeah, she was." Hmmmmm. Makes you wonder. I need to bring Howard some cookies this week.
I'll leave you with this quote. It makes me feel better when I let fear distract me:
Consult not your fears but your hopes and your dreams. Think not about your frustrations, but about your unfulfilled potential. Concern yourself not with what you tried and failed in, but with what it is still possible for you to do.
Pope John XXIII
Until next blog,
Peace,
MAM :)
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Labor Day Pains--Such is Life
Hmmmmmmmmmmmm...ok, today is the first day of my dissertating life.(I am not counting the past year and half of reading and thinking about it as the actual process). My dissertaton life that started today is what I consider the grunt work of dissertating. PhD Labor Pains. I have to now somehow make a plan and set goals. Where do I want to be by Christmas time? What do I want to accomplish by the end of this semester? I had high hopes this morning of having gone through my computer files by the end of the day. I wanted to organize PhD related items I have saved. I have failed miserly at this simple task. It seems I can't find some crucial files. Such is life in a computerized world.
So here I lay in my bed with my laptop. I'm feeling somewhat defeated. It is 9:50 pm. I was up at 7am. At work by 8:30--taught 3 hours of English to a class of ESL students who are at various levels of low intermediate English. Was home by noon--walked to the 12:10 mass. I find mass a necessity in maintaining my sanity. Some people meditate, some people chant, some people invoke Buddha, some people pray to Allah, some light insense. I like to go to daily mass when I can. It helps keep me centered and gives me the strength to survive my solitary life in this wacky world. I talked to the security guard outside church. Yes, I did say security guard. That probably surprises and stuns some of you. But I live in Baltimore city, which tends to bounce back and forth between number 4 and 2 on the country's most dangerous cities list. Just makes life more interesting. :) Since the guard is not always there, whenever I do see him, I know crime has escalated. I asked him, "Where is Howard? Did you scare Howard away?" Howard is my homeless friend who hangs outside the church. He was missing today and another day this past week. I make him cookies. He loves them even though he has to gum them. You see Howard has very few teeth. Howard is a lovable mess who wreaks of alcohol at least 3x a week. Howard is a very big black man with lovely dark soulful eyes and a big heart to match. He towers over me. He calls me baby and sweetie and sweeheart. He makes me smile. I worry about Howard. I miss him when he is not sitting on his usual perch (the rectory steps) or leaning against his usual pole (the No Parking sign). When he sees me coming a block away he starts waving his big floppy hands excitedly. I wave back. Howard seems to disappear whenever the guard comes around. But the guard told me that he is also friends with Howard. He talked to him earlier and also saw him across the street earlier eating some food. But even though they are buddies I still think Howard vanishes on purpose when the guard comes around. Howard never misses a day hanging outside the church unless he is sick. You see it's a good collecting spot for Howard. The other parishoners don't seem to like baking cookies so they give Howard money. But Howard becomes a ghost when the security guard visits. Even though the guard is nice to Howard, Howard is intimitated by the guard. Poor Howard. Such is life the big bad city.
I was home by 1pm. Time for lunch. I called my best friend telling myself I would only talk to her for 10 or 15 minutes. An hour later I was still on the phone discussing the woes and wonders of our worlds. Such is life in the long distance friendship world.
I was now an hour and a half behind my normal daily schedule. Off to the health club I went. I decided to go for a swim. This also is a necessity-- a doctor imposed necessity for my bad back. I was the only one in the pool. Bliss! My own private pool. Feeling refreshed I was on my way home to sort out files. At least that was the plan until my 23 year old friend who works the front desk wanted to talk. So talk we did about the woes of having to suffer ditzy females who seem to be populating at an alarming rate. Where do they come from? We did this until 5pm. Such is life in the health club world.
Dinnertime. I decided to follow Clara the Depression Chef's advice and make peppers and eggs. Check out 93 year old Clara's blog-- http://depressioncooking.blogspot.com/ Very frugal. I like frugality. I watched the movie Anastasia starring Ingrid Bergman while I ate. It skipped continuosly and annoyed me. I did the dishes and and made a fruit salad. Another phone call came in long distance. Next thing I knew it was 9pm and I was searching my computer thinking I will now sort my PhD files. Well, here I lie, it is now 10:45 pm and no files, no sorting. I need a plan. Such is life in the planless world.
I hate planning. I never plan. I learned a long time ago that when I plan something else happens. Ugh. But I really do think I need a "casual" plan and an outline for this semester. It will go something like this:
1. Sort Phd computer files.
2. Sort through huge box filled with Phd papers, notebooks and notes.
3. Reread notes and highlighted book passages that I have read over the last three years and have forgotten.
4. Compile list and sort through people I would like to include in my dissertation.
5.Read published dissertations that pertain to my topic.
6. Write proposal.
7. Plan and do whatever it takes to start the main writing process in January.
The actual writing process doesn't scare me. Once I start writing it will flow and I will end up writing too much. It's the figuring out how to go about it that sends me into brain limbo. I know I will feel much better when I sort all my files and organize my notes. I will also feel better when I reread all my papers and notebooks. This will get me into academia mode again. I also know that reading published dissertations will be a tremendous help. Once I see what others have done I will feel that I can proceed with my own writing.
Oh, and did I say that this will all be done while working three jobs, maintaining friendships (long and short distance), maintaining my health, and worrying about Howard. Such is life in MAM's dissertating world.
Not to self: Maybe I should dump all friends except Howard. I talk too much. Less talking and more researching is needed. But dumping friends is not a good move. When the paper is all crinkled, and the pen is all out of ink, and the printer is all out of paper, my friends and Howard will be the only ones who really care anyway. So the friends will stay. :)
Peace, MAM, who is so tired she can't be bothered checking this post's spelling.
So here I lay in my bed with my laptop. I'm feeling somewhat defeated. It is 9:50 pm. I was up at 7am. At work by 8:30--taught 3 hours of English to a class of ESL students who are at various levels of low intermediate English. Was home by noon--walked to the 12:10 mass. I find mass a necessity in maintaining my sanity. Some people meditate, some people chant, some people invoke Buddha, some people pray to Allah, some light insense. I like to go to daily mass when I can. It helps keep me centered and gives me the strength to survive my solitary life in this wacky world. I talked to the security guard outside church. Yes, I did say security guard. That probably surprises and stuns some of you. But I live in Baltimore city, which tends to bounce back and forth between number 4 and 2 on the country's most dangerous cities list. Just makes life more interesting. :) Since the guard is not always there, whenever I do see him, I know crime has escalated. I asked him, "Where is Howard? Did you scare Howard away?" Howard is my homeless friend who hangs outside the church. He was missing today and another day this past week. I make him cookies. He loves them even though he has to gum them. You see Howard has very few teeth. Howard is a lovable mess who wreaks of alcohol at least 3x a week. Howard is a very big black man with lovely dark soulful eyes and a big heart to match. He towers over me. He calls me baby and sweetie and sweeheart. He makes me smile. I worry about Howard. I miss him when he is not sitting on his usual perch (the rectory steps) or leaning against his usual pole (the No Parking sign). When he sees me coming a block away he starts waving his big floppy hands excitedly. I wave back. Howard seems to disappear whenever the guard comes around. But the guard told me that he is also friends with Howard. He talked to him earlier and also saw him across the street earlier eating some food. But even though they are buddies I still think Howard vanishes on purpose when the guard comes around. Howard never misses a day hanging outside the church unless he is sick. You see it's a good collecting spot for Howard. The other parishoners don't seem to like baking cookies so they give Howard money. But Howard becomes a ghost when the security guard visits. Even though the guard is nice to Howard, Howard is intimitated by the guard. Poor Howard. Such is life the big bad city.
I was home by 1pm. Time for lunch. I called my best friend telling myself I would only talk to her for 10 or 15 minutes. An hour later I was still on the phone discussing the woes and wonders of our worlds. Such is life in the long distance friendship world.
I was now an hour and a half behind my normal daily schedule. Off to the health club I went. I decided to go for a swim. This also is a necessity-- a doctor imposed necessity for my bad back. I was the only one in the pool. Bliss! My own private pool. Feeling refreshed I was on my way home to sort out files. At least that was the plan until my 23 year old friend who works the front desk wanted to talk. So talk we did about the woes of having to suffer ditzy females who seem to be populating at an alarming rate. Where do they come from? We did this until 5pm. Such is life in the health club world.
Dinnertime. I decided to follow Clara the Depression Chef's advice and make peppers and eggs. Check out 93 year old Clara's blog-- http://depressioncooking.blogspot.com/ Very frugal. I like frugality. I watched the movie Anastasia starring Ingrid Bergman while I ate. It skipped continuosly and annoyed me. I did the dishes and and made a fruit salad. Another phone call came in long distance. Next thing I knew it was 9pm and I was searching my computer thinking I will now sort my PhD files. Well, here I lie, it is now 10:45 pm and no files, no sorting. I need a plan. Such is life in the planless world.
I hate planning. I never plan. I learned a long time ago that when I plan something else happens. Ugh. But I really do think I need a "casual" plan and an outline for this semester. It will go something like this:
1. Sort Phd computer files.
2. Sort through huge box filled with Phd papers, notebooks and notes.
3. Reread notes and highlighted book passages that I have read over the last three years and have forgotten.
4. Compile list and sort through people I would like to include in my dissertation.
5.Read published dissertations that pertain to my topic.
6. Write proposal.
7. Plan and do whatever it takes to start the main writing process in January.
The actual writing process doesn't scare me. Once I start writing it will flow and I will end up writing too much. It's the figuring out how to go about it that sends me into brain limbo. I know I will feel much better when I sort all my files and organize my notes. I will also feel better when I reread all my papers and notebooks. This will get me into academia mode again. I also know that reading published dissertations will be a tremendous help. Once I see what others have done I will feel that I can proceed with my own writing.
Oh, and did I say that this will all be done while working three jobs, maintaining friendships (long and short distance), maintaining my health, and worrying about Howard. Such is life in MAM's dissertating world.
Not to self: Maybe I should dump all friends except Howard. I talk too much. Less talking and more researching is needed. But dumping friends is not a good move. When the paper is all crinkled, and the pen is all out of ink, and the printer is all out of paper, my friends and Howard will be the only ones who really care anyway. So the friends will stay. :)
Peace, MAM, who is so tired she can't be bothered checking this post's spelling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg)
