Good thing Wile E. Coyote doesn't live here

High on my list of things to be thankful for today is that the coyote that hung out for a while in front of our trailcam in the wee hours of the morning did not come down the hill to raid the smoker where our Thanksgiving turkey was lingering all night long, and neither did the coyote make its presence known to my husband on any of the times when he went out to check on the smoking turkey through the cold, rainy night. Wile E. Coyote would probably have formed a dastardly plan to capture the turkey, but our resident coyotes don't seem to have an account with the Acme Corporation so our turkey just kept smoking.

I am thankful for a husband who loves to smoke meats even if it means going out in the rain at 2 a.m., unaware that he is in the presence of coyotes. I'm thankful for the turkey itself, tender and juicy and full of flavor, the centerpiece of a feast that required group effort and cooperation. I'm thankful for my son's willingness to reach down items from tall cabinets, set a lovely table, and apply his upper-body strength to the rolling pin when my shoulders are sore from cleaning and coughing. And I'm thankful that the coughing is over and I'm healthy enough to do all this cleaning and cooking and even go out for a walk after the rain stopped.

I'm thankful for South African guests who brought custard pie and said my tangy cranberry chutney reminds them of home. I'm sad that the grandkids couldn't be here, but we'll see them at Christmas and I'm thankful that they're enjoying some time with their cousins. I'm thankful for the sound of the dishwasher clearing away a big portion of the mess, and now that everyone else is napping or heading home, I'm thankful for a chance to look through the latest round of trailcam photos and marvel over the coyotes and other wild things that share our land without disrupting our lives. I hope we can do the same for them.

This big buck was caught on the trailcam five or six times over a few weeks.

Several foxes have been moving through by night.

Coyote, hanging out just uphill from the smoker early this morning.

  

Still here, despite everything

Fifteen years ago tomorrow I spent a full eight hours at the cancer center waiting for and then receiving my final chemotherapy treatment. Every year since then I've paused at the beginning of Thanksgiving week to remind myself that the number one thing I'm thankful for is that I'm still here. 

Which is what I wanted to yell the other day when I overheard some colleagues out in the hallway discussing who will move into my office after I retire.  I'm still here! Haven't left yet! Please don't salivate over my goodies before I'm gone!

And today I spent 45 minutes on the phone having a consultation with a retirement specialist associated with my pension plan. Mostly what I learned is how much I still need to learn, but in my defense, I spent years buried under so much medical debt that I assumed that I'd never be able to retire, and I ignored everything related to retirement. But now all the big horrible debts are gone and by this time next year I should have my mortgage paid off, so retirement is looking more and more possible. 

Necessary, too. I realized over the weekend that I messed up on a student's grade because I simply did not see a note she'd attached to an assignment. I've grown accustomed to the fact that my eyes are failing me, but when they start failing my students, it's getting to be time to quit.

But not today. (You hear that, office-coveters? I'm still here!)  Today I'll teach my classes and attend a meeting and wait patiently for the email system to be restored and celebrate the fact that, despite everything, I'm still here! And that's something to be thankful for.

A study in bleeping scarlet

The fire alarm box in the hallway is beeping loudly and showing this error message: Problem in system. I feel that. My personal system isn't beeping but it's making me want to whimper or cry or curl up in a ball: big red welts on my arm scream scratch me, scratch me while my scarlet nose begs for a tissue and my red scratchy throat howls for herbal tea.

Let the record show that I felt fine before the capstone presentations last night but by the time I was halfway home my throat was so sore that I had to call my husband and ask him to put the kettle on so I could have some soothing tea when I got home. My drippy sinuses and sore nose kept me up half the night, and then this morning I woke up with welts all down one arm. No idea why. I'm wearing two layers of long-sleeved sweater just to prevent me from scratching.

The capstone presentations are not to blame. They were great--my students made me proud--but probably the stress involved in making the whole thing happen opened the door to whatever virus happens to be going around. Or maybe it's an allergy attack. Maybe I'm allergic to sudden snow squalls, multiple late meetings, and driving home on wet roads in the pitch dark. Any one of those things could make me want to proclaim Problem in system! 

My colleague and I reported the fire alarm problem and now someone has come over to make that bleeping beeping stop. No more problem in system--or at least no more beeps. So easy: press the right button and all is well. If only my own system could be silenced so speedily.

 

 

Derailed by a one-track mind

I'll be glad when my senior capstone students are done with their presentations because I'm tired of thinking about them and I'm pretty sure everyone close to me is tired of hearing about them. We are as prepared as we'll ever be and there's really nothing more I can do, but despite all my attempts to think about something else--anything!--the impending presentations keep hijacking my thoughts.

For instance: I'm driving past my neighbor's new sheep pasture, admiring the adorable little sheep and the big fluffy white dog that seems so attentive to the needs of the sheep, and suddenly I'm wishing I had a sheepdog to herd my capstone students' PowerPoints into the inbox.

Or I get to campus a few minutes later than usual and can't find a spot in my usual parking lot so I park near the President's house, and as I walk amongst the beautiful historic homes and lovely fall leaves, my thoughts immediately go to how dark that stretch of road will be at the end of the day when I'll be walking out there after my capstone students' presentations, eek!

Or I'm reading the agenda for this afternoon's Faculty Council meeting and I see a vague reference to "brief/initial discussions of miscellaneous topics," and instead of chuckling heartily I wonder when I'll once again be able to engage in discussions of miscellaneous topics instead of obsessing constantly about my capstone students' presentations.  

I envy the volleyball player who did her presentation on Monday because now she can stop thinking about her capstone presentation and instead focus on other things, like playing in the NCAA volleyball tournament for the first time in Marietta College's history, but I can't even think about buying tickets to the opening game until after I get through my capstone students'  presentations.

For the benefit of all, I probably ought to just hide out in my office until this whole ordeal is over, because there's nothing better than being done with my capstone students' presentations.

 

 

An epidemic of pre-presentation nerves

A colleague told me the other day that before his dissertation defense, he practiced his presentation at least four times every day--for WEEKS. "I could present it for you right now if you asked me to," he said and I believe him, but we had other things to do at the time, like discussing how we're preparing our capstone students for their final presentations.

This is a big deal, and I don't know who is more nervous--me or my students. Well, okay, they're probably more nervous, or we're nervous in different ways. I'm nervous about making sure the technology works, remembering to take extra batteries for the microphone and clicker, making enough copies of the rating sheets for all the faculty members present, walking up on the stage to introduce students without tripping on the steps, and dealing with whatever unexpected issues arise in the course of the presentations.

Based on the questions my students have been asking me, they're nervous about other things. What if they pass out on the stage? (Remember to breathe! Eat! Hydrate!) What if they forget all their important points? (Note cards! Manuscripts! Practice practice practice!) What if the presence of so many profs, classmates, and family members makes them so flustered they drop their note cards or throw up all over the people sitting in the front row? (We'll be there to help! We're all rooting for you!)

In fact the most difficult task for me right now is convincing my students that we are rooting for them. This presentation is the culmination of their work in the English major, so every prof in the department feels invested in their success. The students worry that we'll be sitting out there judging them, ready to tear them to pieces on the rating sheets, eager to throw them questions that will knock them down a peg, when really we want to see them shine. You'll never have a more supportive audience, I tell them, but my students seem to see us as ravening lions waiting to pounce.

My primary task, then, in this last week before their presentations is to calm them down--but not so much that they fail to prepare properly. Today I'll tell them about my colleague who practiced his dissertation defense four times every day for weeks, and then I'll pause for a moment and add, "Only four times a day. Is that enough?"

A little liminal

When people ask whether I get tired of my long drive to work and back I generally tell them No--the drive along the river provides a nice transition between home and the rest of the world. The bridge over our creek is an important part of that transition, the last piece of home before I venture forth or the last hurdle before I'm truly home, and because of this I like to pause a moment in my comings-and-goings, to open the windows and fill my ears with the sounds of running water and my eyes with the beauty around me. Sometimes I see birds or deer or a big fat groundhog but more often it's just trees and water. Today the big sycamore that leans across the creek seemed to glow in the early-morning fog, pointing toward the road that would take me to work, but I didn't want to go--I wanted to stay there all day and listen for the words under the water that Norman Maclean writes about in A River Runs through It. Nevertheless I obeyed the call of duty and drove away, carrying the sound of the creek and the glow of the sycamore with me like a benediction.

 

Stayin' alive

Last week one of my senior capstone students immersed in the demands of producing an annotated bibliography asked me, "Has anyone ever died from this process?" But in the middle of drafting week another student said, "I'm really excited about writing this paper." I've just read his draft and he has a right to be excited. It's neither complete nor perfect, but it's full of interesting insights and analysis--and well written, too.

You will survive this, I keep telling my capstone students, and so far they haven't disappointed me. The annotated bibliography was a big hurdle, but it didn't kill anyone. Now they can focus on synthesizing all those ideas into a major analytical essay and a public presentation. We looked at drafts yesterday and we'll practice presentations next week in preparation for public presentations the following week. Time seems to accelerate at this point in the semester, but after the public presentations we can all take a deep breath and exercise some thankfulness. 

At this point the students are doing all the hard work. I'm reading long drafts, yes, and offering detailed suggestions, and I've finally organized a presentation schedule that works for everyone, including the volleyball player who suddenly discovered that the team's unprecedented unbeaten season will earn an invitation to the NCAA tournament, which conflicts with the original capstone presentation schedule. 

First, though, I'll spend this weekend working my way through nine drafts, all but one comprising over 2000 words. Some will require a frustrating amount of detailed commentary and attention, but I'm already excited to see that we've reached this point in the project with something worthwhile to show for all our work. The senior capstone project may be daunting but it hasn't killed anyone yet, and I for one hope to maintain that record.

Writing "Life Writing" into existence

What's Life Writing they keep asking, and I keep telling them It's writing...about life. The course hasn't been offered for a few years so I guess it's not too surprising that our students don't have a clue what might distinguish Life Writing from other types of writing, but next semester I'll be guiding a dozen or more students through a class I've never taught before so it's about time to figure out what it might be.

I ought to know: I designed and proposed the course more than a decade ago, but then we hired a writing specialist who needed some upper-level classes to fill out his schedule so he took over the class before I ever had a chance to teach it. We were in a different place as an institution back then and I had some different interests, so the sample syllabus I had to create for the course proposal isn't proving too helpful in our current context. But in the lead-up to this bizarre election season I needed to distract my mind with a compelling project, so instead of doom-scrolling I've been finding readings and constructing writing assignments and developing a structure for the Life Writing course I'll teach next semester.

The course will begin with at the center--the individual self--and move slowly outward. Students will read short memoirs and write their own, and then they will read and write about how the self gets entangled (with activities, fields of study, or other people). Then we'll move to reading and writing the life of another person, focusing on unsung heroes or hidden figures. Then we'll bring together the perspectives of several people in an oral history project that I hope will illuminate pivotal points in the students' understanding of the wider world.

We'll read short works by some fabulous authors--Leslie Jamison! Susan Orlean! Drew Lanham!--and one book, Salman Rushdie's Knife, which illustrates the stages of writing about lives from the individual self to the entangled self to the wider world. 

And then I have to tackle the Honors element. Just under half of the students will be taking the course as part of the Honors program, which means they'll do all the work the other students do plus an activity that presents an extra challenge. I'm thinking of asking them to transform one of their pieces into a multimedia essay incorporating visuals, music, or video to enhance the words, or maybe I'll ask them to work in small groups to produce a podcast. I would love to give them a group project: setting up a storytelling booth on campus to collect oral histories of our own part of the world. What kinds of permissions would I have to get to make that happen? Would the Mass Media department share their recording equipment and expertise with my students? Looks like I've got some work to do to determine feasibility.

But hey: having a challenging project is just the ticket for maintaining sanity when the world seems to be careening toward catastrophe, so let's put words on the page and write some lives.

Step of faith

Some time ago I was sitting in a church sanctuary almost Shaker in its simplicity, with elegant lines and proportions, understated decorations, a lofty ceiling and big glass windows opening to a lush, green swath of woods; the church was hosting an art show at the time, so beautiful things were hanging on all the walls and my daughter's choir filled the space with music to exalt the soul. Sitting in that pew surrounded by my family and by so much beauty, I thought, If I could worship in this kind of environment every Sunday, I would be a happier person. 

But of course that's ridiculous. Even if I lived close enough to attend that church, it wouldn't host an art show every Sunday, nor would my daughter's choir perform there more than once a year. And besides, I never experienced their usual mode of worship, heard a sermon, or fellowshiped with the congregants. The church appealed on an aesthetic level, but when it comes to matters of the spirit, beauty isn't everything.

If I could design the ideal church, I would start with that simple but elegant design and develop a liturgy that would appeal to the whole person--heart, soul, mind, and body. But even if I included all the things I love about a worship service (great music, thought-provoking sermons, meaningful liturgy) and left out the things that leave me cold (lackluster singing, music blasting so loudly it hurts my eardrums, gaudy stained glass), I still couldn't guarantee that the church would attract the one thing that makes a church a church: the community of people who care about each other. My ideal of elegant simplicity would leave others cold--I mean, lots of people like stained glass! The thought-provoking sermon that sparks new insight in my mind might strike others as too heady or uninspiring. And the music that soothes my soul may not appeal to someone whose musical tastes start and end with Elvis.

So if the perfect church does not exist, I'll have to put up with the imperfect church--and the imperfect church will have to put up with me. But that can be a problem too. Like many pastor's wives, I tend to get buttonholed as an appendage. I am the pastor's wife: that's all anyone seems to want to know about me, and when I reveal other aspects of my being, I am met with befuddled looks or dismissive comments, like the time I told a parishioner that I teach writing and literature and he said "Why would anyone need to learn that these days?" 

So last week when I heard the poet Christian Wiman talk about his struggles with faith and art (on the podcast No Small Endeavor, which I highly recommend), it resonated deeply, especially this passage:

I do feel like faith is the most important thing in my life, but I've never found a form that is satisfying to me, or in which, to put it more bluntly, more sharply, a form in which I don't feel that my own experience is being violated.

And so that's a constant wrestle for me because I'm desperate for some community in which to believe. And at various times in my life I've had that, and I do believe in it very much. And I respect the institution of the church. I respect my students who are going into these jobs. Many of my students are becoming ministers, and there's something heroic in that at this particular cultural moment.

But for myself, I have always felt outside of the institution, and I don't consider myself a Catholic or a Protestant. I do consider myself a Christian, but I'm pretty frustrated with the ways that we try to tame God, and try to contain God in ways that make the experience palatable, gentle, socially sort of lubricating.

....

I mean, I've been to so many different churches and always something happens that, that I just disagree with so profoundly or often there's a mismatch between the urgency with which I feel in my own interior communion with, and wrestling with God, and the banality of the spaces in which this is supposedly being expressed.

And so, I'm often bored out of my skull at church, you know, and if I'm not bored, I'm often I just disagree so profoundly with what's being said. And I also feel that most churches don't allow for a space for how wild God could be, you know? I mean, Annie Dillard has that famous paragraph about saying that people should be wearing crash helmets in church, and, you know, lashing themselves to the pews.

I think this is a typical problem with an artist, because if you feel, you know, most of my sense of faith comes from my experience of art. I mean that is an intense engagement with God and with reality and then to step into somewhere where you're just sort of having coffee hour.

The notion of trying to tame God into a palatable form--I feel that deeply. The feeling that I have to put big parts of myself into a box before I enter into the sanctuary--been there, done that. The banal spaces and small-minded ideas squelching the wild unpredictability of spiritual experience--it's a problem.

Which is one reason why yesterday I attended a service at a church where I was pretty sure I wouldn't know anyone and therefore no one would know me or judge me or treat me like an appendage. I wanted to have a spiritual experience unencumbered by anyone else's expectations, and you know what? I did. It wasn't the perfect church--the ceiling was low, the altar cloths were faded, and I didn't entirely understand the liturgy--but I had an experience of the wildness of God and I left feeling refreshed and happy. Which, right now, is probably enough.