Meditations

Revival!

2009-06-12T22:05:00.002-05:00

I can't believe how much time has passed since I've posted anything to this blog! I haven't lacked words; I've lacked time--and perhaps motivation--to post them, at least in this format. That, however, is changing.

A week from tomorrow, I board a plan for London. An all too short sleep later, I get to take the tunnel under the English Channel to Paris, then fly to Dakar, Senegal, where I will spend two weeks working with the LeTourneau University LEGS team. If you're not familiar with LEGS, the best plan is to check out the LEGS website for all the details. One of my students and I will be interacting with the LEGS project and researching visual literacy in both Senegal and Kenya, which we will visit after Senegal. Altogether, I'll be away from home nearly a month.

That's a really long time for a homebody like me! Right now, I'm at the wide-eyed, head-spinning, self-doubting, overwhelmed (add other adjectives that connote feelings of unprepared insecurity here) stage. I guess this is a good time to remember that the wisdom and strength for this project come from God and not from me. In fact, God has been reminding me of that in some really cool ways.

Two days ago, I had to go to campus for a couple of errands. While I was there, I stopped in to say hello to my friend Janet. After a couple minutes of visiting, she said, "Let me pray for you," grabbed me in a big hug, and prayed for me.

The next day, I had a doctor appointment. On my way out the door, I saw another colleague, John, a dear friend who is always a blessing and an inspiration. We talked for a few minutes, and then John, just as a way of continuing conversation, prayed for me right there in the doctor's office. No closed eyes, no formality--just focusing on the fact that God was already included in the conversation (which is really what prayer is anyway).

I am so blessed to work at a place that blesses me with these kinds of relationships! I have been twice blessed! Deadlines and stresses still loom large, but I am reminded that God is at work.

So I hope to post to this blog quite a lot in the next month, adding pics and even some videos as I'm able. I'm not sure what kind of web access we'll have in Africa, but when we do have it, I'll try to post.

What adventures lie ahead?

It's been a hard day this summer.

2007-06-23T20:46:00.000-05:00

It's been a hard day this summer. So many blogs should have been written, so much feeling expressed. My friend and colleague is fighting for his life against cancer. Hope was pretty dim a few weeks ago, but so many people have been praying, and God has answered prayers. At this point, the prognosis is much brighter. My mom, on the other hand, is fighting against the inevitable. Mom's cancer is inoperable and incurable. She's begun radiation and chemo; doctors hope that if treatment is successful, it will add a few more months to the precious few she has left.

Earlier this week, Ken's uncle killed himself. Doctors sent him home from the hospital with the news that they could no longer treat his heart problems. Nothing remained to be done. He made a choice not to fight, not to live any longer. Too much death. Too much dying. Definitely too much giving up.

I've found myself almost completely unable to focus and concentrate. When I should be working on research or my online courses, my brain just frags. I enjoy working outside, and I've been working like a crazy woman when it isn't raining. Last year was a drought year, and we beseeched heaven for every drop of rain. This year, we've had rain almost every single day since school got out.

I am heartily sick of rain. It's become symbolic of frustration, angst, struggle, and my inability to do what needs to get done.

It's been a hard day this summer. The good thing--the comfort--is that at the end of each day, I can still snuggle up next to Ken, tangle my fingers in his beard, and know that I am still held tightly in the arms of Jesus.

Joy

2007-01-25T10:40:00.000-06:00

A few people in the world intensify everything around them. Smiles are broader; feelings are felt more deeply. Light is a few lumens brighter. I miss Joy.

Perspective

2006-12-31T23:50:00.000-06:00

New Year's Eve. Party night. I've never really bought in. I prefer a quiet night at home, a perfect cup of tea at midnight, and a peaceful night's sleep followed by baked eggs for breakfast (a family tradition) and the Rose Parade on TV. I suppose the popular thing to do is engage in retrospective, but I prefer perspective--understanding the past as a way of grounding in the present and strengthening for the future. I'm coming off of the toughest semester of my professional career. Good in many ways, but also very difficult. Heaviest teaching load ever, heavier than I wanted and heavier than I knew I could handle, even without knowing that my mom (and once, also, my dad) would be in and out of the hospital the whole semester with life-threatening illness. The good things: a new grandbaby born end of summer. Amazingingly wonderful studnets and really fun classes. A fall break trip to Indiana to see my kids and grandkids. A trip to Australia. Good--very, very good. Christmas. Wonderful but disjointed. Usually, we decorate all at once the day after Thanksgiving. This year, with the Australia trip in the works, decorating was slow and piecemeal, and the celebratory mood and feelings followed suit. Grading was huge and overwhelming, extending until only a few days before Christmas and leaving little time for holiday preparation. Still Christmas was wonderful because my whole family was together. Unbounded faith. Unbounded love. At this exact moment, the clock strikes midnight to begin 2007. Fireworks pop away outside; my dogs are surprisingly unperturbed. Carina and Libby are peacefully asleep in the baby room and the office. We're cherishing every moment of the ten days they are staying with Grammy and Pops while Miah and Marcie lead worship at a Missions Asia conference in Thailand. Tonight, Libby listened to Marcie talk to her on the phone. She was so intent on listening, hugged the phone, said, "Mama!" repeatedly," and was almost inconsolable afterward. I have to confess that my Grammy's heart was warmed when she finally decided that I was an acceptable source of comfort and settled into my arms to cuddle and fall asleep. Carina loved the computer videos of stories read by Mommy and Daddy, and thankfully they left her feeling filled up rather than bereft. She's a master at manipulation, but the one time she did get out of bed tonight, it was to call me into the hallway to tell me she just had to hug and kiss me and tell me she loves me. Baby Javan had a tough day today too, but he let Grammy rock him to sleep and napped with me for an hour, then woke up and gave me the sweetest smiles. Treasures all. New year. I dislike resolutions. I'd rather think in terms of where I'd like to be in a year, two years, five years. Some of that is too personal for a public blog. Academically, I'm anxiously approaching a research project that I hope will make a difference in online education. Tonight though, I'm more interested in getting back to my knitting needles. Last night, I finished a knitted jumper for Carina, and she loves it. She wore it to church today, and when she put it on, she made me promise to dance with her at church. We danced. When we were at the store last week, she picked out and fell in love with a brightly variegated yarn. I think I bought enough to make matching sweaters for her and Libby. Every stitch is a prayer and a smile.

Thirty one hours later . . .

2006-12-01T01:21:00.000-06:00

Thirty one hour later . . .
I'm in Australia. Hard to believe. Quite a journey getting here.

First, I arrived very late at the Gregg County airport. Nobody believes the "2 hours early for an international flight" line when we're talking Gregg County, but I did intend to be there over an hour early. Key word here is intend. Somehow after being in my office until 10:15 p.m. the night before trying to wrap up the "MUST do" stuff, and then being up until 3:30 a.m. at home before even starting to pack, then of course dragging out of bed and trying to pack on very little sleep . . . .

By the time I got there, the overbooked plane was full. No volunteers to wait. So American handed me a $250 travel voucher (that part was nice), scared up a van to drive me and another passenger to Shreveport, and put us (just barely in time!) on a plane to Dallas in time to catch our next flight. Landed in Dallas with 10 minutes to spare before boarding the next flight and still had to change terminals etc. As things ended, up, I needn't have stressed quite as much as I did, rushing from one terminal to another. The Shreveport to Dallas flight was the only one of the trip to leave remotely on time.

But I get ahead of myself. TSA loves me. They love to search my luggage. Every time I travel, I open my bag to find a little paper inside that says "TSA was here, pawing through your stuff." Don't ask me why. I usually have no trouble with airport security on the walk through level. But at Shreveport--maybe just BECAUSE the ticket agent was there encouraging TSA to hurry because the flight was (supposedly) about to leave without me--the agent scanned my carry on three (count them, THREE) times, opened it, took some things out to scan individually--go figure. I'm so suspicious.

We arrive in Dallas, rush around, then wait for an hour until the late plane arrives so we can leave an hour late for San Francisco. The San Francisco to Sidney flight (stop over on the way to Melbourne--supposed to be just a quick in and out) left an hour and a half late because they had to "off-load a sick crew member." At Sidney, the luggage hatch wouldn't close, so we waited an hour and half on that. Then we waited a half hour on landing in Melbourne before luggage came down the ramp while they worked at getting it open again. I learned just to close my eyes, go to sleep and not care when the plane took off. Got a lot more sleep that way.

You know how after you've been at the ocean all day, when you sit still or close your eyes, you can still feel the waves? That's how I feel now. I can still feel the plane moving under me--the vibration and rocking sort of movement. Very disturbing when you're in a 5-story hotel (paying $6 Aussie dollars per hour for Internet access).

So this afternoon I got checked in to the hotel and didn't feel very well. Then I realized I hadn't eaten anything since about 5:00 this morning--airline breakfast. Oops. Jet lag really messes with your appetite as well as your sense of timing. Went out and got a sandwich and feel better. Now if the world would just hold still . . . Going to try to arrange a day trip for tomorrow--make good use of my one sightseeing day. After making those arrangements, I'm going to hit the pool and hot tub, take a long hot shower, and climb into bed early.

First impressions of Melbourne--London, New York, and Honolulu rolled into one. Sidewalk cafes are everywhere. People relax on the street for a coffee, and when you sit down among them, if you're among five conversations, they are likely to be in five languages. Alleys full of tourist-trap shops link major streets. The huge and grand butts itself up against the cheap and trashy. People wear absolutely anything. Great people-watching place.

My time is nearly up. More later.

A butterfly flaps its wings . . .

2006-06-18T20:57:00.000-05:00

Whenever I get a chance to walk along a seashore (which isn't nearly often enough), I find myself contemplating chaos theory. The butterfly flaps its wings on one side of the planet, and the tiny currents ripple through the atmosphere over time to change what, according to man's scale of prediction anyway, would have happened otherwise. Toes in the sand alter the rippled patterns of sand that washes back out to sea, changing forever the shape and direction of waves. I walk along the shore and change the universe.

Of course, in the environmentalist view, that's probably viewed as a negative impact, but I don't see it that way. As Hopkins wrote,

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And bears man’s smudge, and shares man’s smell; the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights from the black west went,
Oh, morning at the brown brink eastwards springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast, and with, ah, bright wings.

Never spent, despite all the trodding footprints that were, after all, part of the original design.

People too, composites of decisions made, impacts of people by whom we've been influenced and touched. Another kind of "footprints," hopefully not as bleared and smeared as those Hopkins describes.

But they are just that bleared and smeared at times, as described in my last post. What is it about human nature that tries to out-hurt those who have hurt us by wounding deeper than we have been wounded, out-do whatever is donen to us, sometimes for good but more often for ill--out-Herod Herod as the saying goes. Footprints that change the universe of a psyche, a life, a relationship, a trust. Chaos. The butterfly flaps its wings . . . .

I have been in Florida for a week. Watched birds swoop down over the breaking waves to feed, sand crabs peep up out of the sand and duck under again, jellyfish wash ashore to melt in the sun like globs of goo on the sand, scavenger birds feed on prey washed ashore by the waves and left behind by humans, and human scavengers follow the daily beachgoers with metal detectors searching for lost treasures to call their own. The butterfly flaps its wings . . . . Tomorrow I fly home. Welcome thought.

mourning

2006-06-09T23:34:00.000-05:00

All day today, I have been mourning the loss of a piece of myself. Do you know what I mean? I value relationships. They are part of who I am. When one is lost, I feel like I have lost a piece of myself.

Yesterday, I screwed up. I hurt someone unintentionally--and even unknowingly. Even after the fact, I had no idea my words had offended someone I would never want to hurt or offend. I found out when someone else, offended on behalf of the person I had hurt, made it known to me in an e-mail designed, I think, not so much to inform as to lash out in anger, to revenge. In sum, it concluded that I am someone "to avoid like the plague."

Several years ago, I had a very difficult but life-defining experience. Sparing the details, I will say only that it resulted in commitment to a decision that if someone wants to avoid me, I won't make it difficult to do so. That's a game I just won't play. I am deeply grieved, however, to add these who are dear to me to the (thankfully short) list of people I will not trouble with my presence. I feel like part of me died today.

What saddens me most is wording that indicates a past attitude hidden from me. They have acted as though all was well between us. I thought it was. Time and care, pieced together and invested in them seems to have evaporated. I realize the e-mail was written in anger and crafted to hurt. It hit its mark, but it also revealed that either its presentation or the other that has been shown me was a lie, and now I feel that I can trust neither. How can a relationship be built on that?

So I mourn.

Love and Beauty

2006-01-22T00:05:00.000-06:00

Love and Beauty
Too late for profound thoughts tonight except to say that these are the two sweetest and most beautiful girls in the world. When Carina says, "I love you, Grammy," life is good. Libby is too little yet to say anything verbally, but she talks with her eyes (and her eyebrows, which is really interesting!), and her laughs light up a room. She has just discovered her feet and finds great joy simply in having them. Such joy in such simple pleasures. That's part of the joy of being "Grammy"--experiencing the joys all over again.

In Weakness I Am Strong

2005-03-09T16:25:00.000-06:00

For a long time, I've been praying to see God's power in my life--you know, that "Where is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob?" sort of prayer. This is the kind of prayer you hope God will answer with a bolt of lightning or some wonderful, powerful success. So much of the time, I feel like I'm just barely keeping my head above water, not living powerfully as I want to and and feel that I should. So Iprayed to see God's power. I should have known better. God has been changing my perspective. Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Elijah--the list goes on--they weren't powerful. They were weak, faithless, frail, human. God was powerful. God did powerful things through them. and those powerful things weren't always the bolts of lightning. I've learned this by being weak--very weak--probably the weakest I've been in my life, debilitated by severe back pain and reliance on pain medications just to get through the day. Through my weakness, God has been powerful. It started on Saturday in the ER when the ER "doctor" (obviously, I wasn't impressed) referred me to a back doctor. I've never heard of the guy, but at the mention of his name, my spirit said "no." I checked with a friend: "Have you heard anything about him?" Long pause, then "Well, nothing good." Confirmed. My mom called her back doctor. His first new patient appointment was the end of April. He saw me on Tuesday, the day after mom called. A surgery cancelled. The ER "doctor" also ordered an MRI. This was on Saturday, remember. I called Monday morning and had an MRI by Monday night. Doesn't happen that way around here--not in Longview, Texas. Plans were to head to Indiana to see my grandbaby over spring break. Everyone was telling me not to go, but I really, really wanted to and couldn't decide. I finally prayed for a very clear answer, one way or the other. The doctor (the good one) had ordered a follow-up MRI with special views and other funky stuff. He wanted it that week. Instead, the only possible time was Wednesday, right in the middle of spring break. Answer. I stayed home. This isn't over. Doctor isn't sure yet what's causing the problem, and I'm walking by faith. But I have seen God be powerful through seemingly small but significant ways--through and because of my weakness. I am strong because I am weak. In my weakness, He is strong through me.

Mr. Murphy

2005-02-25T10:24:00.000-06:00

Murphy took his last ride today and won't be coming home. He has been with us for about a dozen years. Pet, conversation piece, object of affectionate ridicule--all heart, no brain.

Adorable as a puppy, rescued from the heat and dust of a cage in Canton, he grew into an odd combination of short wooly and long wiry fur and gaping vacancy behind the eyes. Ken's aunt summed it up well: "Is that a dog?"

He has been called many names and compared to many creatures, chiefly rodents, real and cinematic (chiefly the R.O.U.S. variety.) For the last several months, Murphy's life has consisted of eat, sleep, fart, leave "presents" on the carpet, and dig in the yard. The backyard looks like a scene from Holes.

Still, he lived and loved. His grip on our hearts is not as tight as Chester's was, but I will miss him.

overwhelmed

2004-11-16T13:08:00.001-06:00

On my way to work, I listened to the title cut of 40 miles north's cd Overjoyed. First line: "I'm overjoyed, overwhelmed, overcome by your love." "Overwhelmed"--now that's a word I've heard--and used--a lot lately. It's been an overwhelming semester. Students are overwhelmed; faculty are overwhelmed. Life is just overwhelming. I'm overwhelmed by class preparation, details that need administrative attention, students who are struggling, grading papers, keeping house, paying bills, housebreaking a dalmatian puppy--lots of very overwhelming things in life. What I'm not overwhelmed by is God's love, probably because I'm so busy being overwhelmed by everything else. I wonder: can one choose what to be overwhelmed by? Life is inherently overwhelming, and that's a good thing. If it weren't, the "intolerable ordinary" would be all the more intolerable. Without the overwhelming, life would have no drama, no challenge, no triumph, no meaning. But can we choose what will and will not be overwhelming? I've had to learn to choose--and refuse--stresses this semester. With department chair duties and Teaching Faculty Organization leadership responsibilities, I've had to face down some issues and deny them permission to stress me out. My friend Fredna has taught me a wonderfully useful response: "We're just going to have to pick something else to get upset about, because we're not going to get upset about this." Can I apply the same approach to the overwhelming that I'm learning to apply to the stressful? And can it work the other direction also--this piece of life, this phenomenon will be overwhelming. I give it permission, time, and space to upset my equilibrium, to blow me away. How does one make that happen?

Crape Myrtles and Southern Courtesy: Welcome to Texas

2004-07-18T23:00:00.000-05:00

"No, really, I just can't do that." He was talking to a woman, another passenger on the American Airlines shuttle bus between the main terminal and the satellite terminal. Just an ordinary guy and an ordinary woman. He had a seat, she came on board and stood. He got up and offered her his chair. "Thanks, but this is fine." "No, really, I just can't do that." He stayed standing; she said "Thanks" and sat. An unremarkable incident that still deserves remarks, especially because of its proximity to another incident I witnessed yesterday at the University of Delaware where I was attending a conference. A young student (male) held the door open for another woman who was attending the conference. She's middle-aged, not elderly by any stretch, but has beautiful gray hair. She wondered what his conduct said about his attitude toward gray-haired women. Nothing at all. No, friend, he wasn't commenting on your age, and he wasn't insulting your gender or challenging your feminist equality. Neither was the guy on the airport bus. Their mommas just raised them right, that's all. When we landed in Dallas this afternoon and began our trek through the airport, I saw crape myrtles out the windows and witnessed southern courtesy inside the bus. Gentle beauty. Welcome home. Glad to be back. It's not that holding a door or giving up a seat is such a big deal. It's just a small gesture of respect and courtesy. We still prize that here in the South. Kids raised right say "Ma'am" and "Sir," and they mean it respectfully because their mommas (and dads) taught them that's the way to address someone. Age isn't an issue--adults call each other "ma'am" and "sir" to show simple respect for other people. My students from the West or the North often find that a bit archaic or even wonder if there isn't a sneer lurking somewhere in the syntax. (When my Chicagoan-turned-Californian mother-in-law first moved to Texas and my kids called her ma'am, she heard sarcasm where there was none. In Chicago, she explained to me, those words were disrespectful.) But I hope those students imbibe a bit of southern courtesy with their English and business or mechanical engineering. At the same time, I hope we learn from them a bit about expressions of courtesy and behaviors of respect in their parts of the country or world. At the risk of sounding like a cliche', I'd like to say that this world would be a gentler, kinder place if we were more intentional about treating each other with simple respect and courtesy. That's a good thing. So when someone holds the door, just say "thanks" and walk through. Then watch for your chance to hold it for someone else, regardless or age or gender.

Re-placing placement

2004-07-15T18:50:00.000-05:00

Newark, Delaware, specifically the University of Delaware campus is the origin site for this post and the place for today's rethinking of students' placement into composition courses. I attended the all-day Assessment Institute that is part of the annual conference of the Council of Writing Program Administrators.

I come away with more questions than answers, but that's a good thing. When I began, I wasn't even sure where to begin asking questions! The task seems overwhelming, but I'm more convinced than ever that our placement system at LeTourneau does work for us. Our method isn't a theoretically-popular one among composition theorists, but oddly enough, more universities use it than want to admit! How does placement fit into the larger picture of program assessment? How is it driven by (rather than drive) curriculum design? Those are the questions I'm pondering.

Tonight, though, I miss Ken, home, and my doggies. New family member Kuuipo and I have been bonding, and the separation seems a wide gulf.

Kuuipo

2004-07-10T22:00:00.000-05:00

"What?"

That's what everyone asks. Her name is Kuuipo. She's eight and a half weeks old, and she's a dalmatian rescue puppy. She's also the newest member of our family.

Kuuipo means "Sweetheart" in Hawaiian, and she is. I think the name is actually pronounced with a whole lot of syllables, like Koo-oo-ee-po, and I'm really not sure where the accent goes. We sort of run it together and call her Kweepo. Even at that, when I took her to the Balloon Glow Alumni dinner tonight at LeTourneau's hangar out at the airport, one little boy who asked her name looked at me like I had mortally offended him. He just glared at me and then walked off.

Kuuipo's mom was owner-surrendered (whatever that means--the shelter doesn't give details) to a North Texas Humane Society. On the day she was scheduled to be "euthanized" (read murdered because an owner probably didn't care enough or couldn't be bothered), the Dalmatian Rescue of North Texas (DRNT) found out about her and got her out of the shelter. About a week later, they discovered she was pregnant. She's a small lady but still had twelve puppies. Two were too small to live, but ten are healthy and playful. Kuuipo decided she wanted to come and live with me. I played with all the puppies and held the three females, but Kuuipo was the one who chewed on my ears, gave me kisses, and ran back to me after I set her down. She picked me, so I picked her.

Notice to readers: First, please pay attention to the fact that dalmatian is spelled with a "tian" not a "tion." Okay, that's a pet peeve. I used to have a Hotmail account with dalmatian as part of the username. I gave the address to a group of students, who promptly sent e-mails to someone else with the same username but spelled incorrectly. Second, if you take a dog home, he or she is family and is yours for life. I like the way the DRNT puts it: These dogs need to find their forever homes. Dalmatians are eager, active, willful, one-person dogs. They tend not to be family dogs and are not usually great with kids. They are deeply loyal and loving. My dalmatian Hero has been one of my best friends for over nine years. My other dogs are too, but they are more family dogs. Hero thinks of herself as my dog (or maybe thinks of me as her person). She follows me everywhere and pitches a fit whenever a door is closed between us. Ann of DRNT says, "If you don't want velcro, you don't want dalmatian."

But if you don't mind being followed around at close range and having a dog nudge open the shower door every 2 to 3 minutes just to make sure you're still there and still okay, you might be a good dal pal. You just can't beat a dalmatian for love and loyalty--two virtues we could use a lot more of in this world.

Lots of folks seem to get dogs--including dalmatians--without thinking through the commitments or obligarions involved, and then those dogs end up in shelters or with rescue organizations. If you want a dog, rescues are a good source, and Dalmatian Rescue of North Texas (DRNT) is a great place to start. Their Website links to lots of rescue organizations.

2004-03-22T09:39:00.000-06:00

Fifty lashes for Sears. Their new Home Center catalog features this ghastly sentence on page 75: "Oval pool (C) has Trimline supports that only extends 9" from the sidewall." This catalog writer has real talent: a subject-verb agreement error and a misplace modifier in one short sentence! Although the Web site corrects the agreement problem, it keeps the misplaced modifier. I saved the catalog for Querida. It will be a good target for her righteous anger at grammaticaliens.

2004-03-21T18:59:00.000-06:00

Spring break--what Eliot calls a blessing from heaven--is over. The few hours of Sunday night left don't seem to count--my brain is trying (trying. . . trying. . .) to go back to school. I am blessed, beyond all desrving, but sometimes I don't feel that way. This week has been one of those times. It hasn't been a break I'll remember fondly. I planted a Bradford pear tree beside Chester. With each spring's blossoms, I'll remember.

2004-03-18T18:48:00.000-06:00

Thirteen years ago, Chester became one of my best friends. School was closed due to rain and flooding, and a few of us were on campus mucking out. When I stepped outside, I saw a small dog crouched under a tree near the road. Whenever a large truck went by, he ran out barking and wagging his tail. Each time one failed to stop, he would slink back under the tree. He was cold, wet, hungry, and afraid, having learned from someone not to trust. Hunger won over fear; a meat sandwich left in the refrigerator tempted him beyond resistance. A full tummy, a bowl of water, and a warm towel later, we were friends. Chester was sick. A couple of days after we brought him home, he stiffened up and whimpered when he tried to move. The vet diagnosed a crippling but treatable illness, and Chester proved the miracles of modern antibiotics. Despite occasional relapses, he grew strong and healthy. He has chased, caught, and shredded hundreds of tennis balls. He got his picture in the paper when I wrote to the editor nominating him as a better candidate than David Duke, an ex-KKK member who made a brief bid for the presidency. (I guess I should have pursued his nomination. He's far more ethical than the beast that won and spent the next eight years in the White House.) He has slept beside my bed for the last thirteen years. He moved with us into this house. I've never lived here without him. That was a long time ago. Chester's once bright, intelligent eyes are now bleary with cataracts. He can't hear me call him and doesn't awaken at the smell of food held half an inch from his nose. The stiff joints that have plagued him intermittently since puppyhood have settled into persistent, crippling arthritis. He used to be so embarrassed--even ashamed--if he had an "accident" in the house. Now, he has trouble controlling himself and sometimes doesn't even seem to realize that he has left us "presents" on the carpet. Everyone tells me it's time to let him go. I was raised to deny anger ("Just get a hold of yourself.") and grief ("Just keep smiling."), so even at my age, I'm a relative neophyte at dealing with those emotions. Maybe that's why I'm struggling so deeply with the decision we have finally made. I'm angry--angry that life ends in death, angry at pain, angry at people who offer pithy platitudes as if they could solace a grief unshared and not understood. I have a friend who believes that dogs have souls and go to heaven. I wish I could believe that too, but I can't. My grandmother died last summer. She was 100 years plus a week old, and I never shed a tear. Death released her from an imprisoning body that had robbed her of all freedom and dignity. Heaven is better, a joyful reunion with her husband, daughter, mother, father, and Jesus, whom she loved (loves) more than anyone else. I miss her, but I could not cry for her. I can't seem to stop crying for Chester. I'm drawing a contrast here, not a comparison. There's no issue here of whether I love my dog more than my grandmother or any other such foolishness. Love takes many forms and can't be categorized or arranged into a continuum. I knew how to understand and cope with grandma's death; I don't know how to undestand Chester's. For a long time, we prayed for Grandma's release; as I said, heaven is better. When the time came, she went to sleep and just didn't wake up. I wish Chester could do the same. Somehow, that seems more right than having final sleep come from a veterinary IV tube. Maybe Chester wants to just go to sleep. I wish he could tell me. Heck, even I want to go to sleep and just be unconscious for awhile. The part of me that tends toward depression waxes strong. Love means risk, and I understand (perhaps a little better) people who don't let themselves get attached to dogs. I can't do that; my dogs have always been some of my best friends. Chester is one of four canine members of the family. The risk is great; the reward greater. I wouldn't want to have missed Chester's love and friendship for fear of risk, but I have to be honest about the risk now that it's real. I'm angry, and I hurt to my very soul. I feel too paralyzed to even think about the conference papers I should be working on. Instead, I work outside--pulling weeds, raking leaves, pruning trees--as if sweat could purchase solace. In my multi-ethnic lit class, we read a poem by a Native American author who claims that her language has no word for goodbye. They speak of later, another time, another place. I wish I could make myself believe that, but denial is ludicrous. (Just two days ago, I listened to my parents assuring a doctor that grandma was lucid to the end. This is the same grandma who hadn't known me for over a year and who asked if the bearded man walking down the nursing home hallway was Abraham or Isaac.) I have to deal in truth--in the truth that this is goodbye. It's a real word. I just don't know how to say it.

2003-07-09T15:33:00.000-05:00

I should be responding to papers for my online composition course. I am, in fact: I've paused in the middle of one. But as I write this, one of those glorious summer rains is pouring out of the skies, as if God opened the sluice gates and sang forth a river of water to fall as it does only in Texas. Awhile back, in a burst of post-dissertation frenzied self-reorganization, I rearranged my house and turned a spare bedroom into an office. In the process, my desk departed its middle-of-a-room-with-no-view address and took up residence in front of a window. Outside, my brightly blooming crape myrtles are dipping in the rain and floating on the breeze, and the thunder sings accompaniment to their dance. I set my work aside, made a cup of tea, and went outside to smell the rain. Urged back indoors by my whining dalmatian who prefers dry air conditioning to wet, humid summer, I returned to my desk, but my work lies unattended, and my eyes remain glued to the window.

2003-05-12T11:50:00.000-05:00

It's official. Saturday, during an otherwise ordinary and forgettable graduation ceremony at Texas Woman's University, I was announced as Dr. Ann Marie Olson and "hooded." The best part of the day was that I was finally able to forge a connection between two seemingly disparate groups of people in my life--my family and my graduate school colleages. I enjoyed being able to introduce one group to the other, then sit back in amused pleasure as they bragged on me to each other. Such an odd ritual, graduation. The regalia, designed for warmth in cold, drafty Middle Aged halls, has outlived it usefulness and practicality, especially on a nearly 90-degree Texas morning when even the air conditioning can't keep pace with the rising temperatures. Still, we wear it for ritual, for dignity at a ceremony intended to be formal and auspicious (a fact that escapes most of the screaming, air-horn-blowing audience).

2003-04-10T11:36:00.000-05:00

Patches of color, capturing and tossing rays of sunlight like playthings.
Shadows blended with shades and hues.
The sharp glistening of a leftover raindrop.

Saturday I finished planting my second azalea garden, and the Sunday rain urged buds into blossoms. For the next few days, the flowers seemed to shiver in the cold. Today, they stretch and open to embrace the sun streaming through unclouded skies.

I sit at my desk, facing the window, and I see unrivaled beauty.

2003-03-31T12:45:00.000-06:00

Let me introduce myself: my name is Dr. Olson. I defended my dissertation on March 14 and now have just some final editing to do before making a bazillion copies and turning it in. Thursday was the first chance I had to actually take a deep breath since the defense. Right afterward, I had to rush around getting ready for a trip to New York for the CCCC convention. It was an interesting time to be in New York, what with bombs beginning to fall on Iraq. New York felt quite safe, though, in a paranoid sort of way--emergency equipment positioned throughout the city rather than hiding away in stations and cops very visible--about every 25 feet. The conference was great, and so was the chance to see two amazing Broadway shows: 42nd Street (which knocked my socks off) and Les Miserables (which was also amazing). I wish we'd had time to do more, but the conference sessions had priority, of course. I made a presentation about--what else?--my dissertation topic: MOOs and Bakhtin, but focused more on rhetorical agency in computerized writing environments and less on rhetorical invention. The session (which I organized, btw), was reviewed by Will Hochman for Academic Writing, which was kinda cool. I got less space than the other two presenters, but they are more widely known. My next project, as soon as I finish final editing on the dissertation, will be to prepare another paper for Computers and Writing in May. Never a dull moment ....

2003-02-19T16:28:00.000-06:00

The entire dissertation is now mailed off to committee---all 408 pages of it. (418 if you count the introductory pages.) Last night for the first time in three years, there was nothing I could do on my dissertation. It felt weird, and I almost didn't know what to do with myself--but I got over it and quilted. Guilt-free quilting--what a luxury. Sadder note--my grandmother is dying. Her body is stiff, and her pain is unyielding. She is confused much of the time, and heaven is better, but she tenaciously graps her earthly life. Life IS precious--even when we ought to let it go. How to reconcile that?

2003-01-27T10:26:00.000-06:00

Rejoice with those who rejoice, right? So . . . cheer, shout, throw food, wave banners, scatter confetti, and then fall with me in an exhausted heap to the floor. The nemesis has been faced down. Chapter 4 is in the mail.

2003-01-12T19:23:00.000-06:00

So, yeah, it's been awhile--September to January--but it's not like I haven't had anything else going on in my life, right? I have worked for weeks on my dissertation research, condensing hundreds (and hundreds) of pages of raw data into 98 much-more-manageable pages of data display tables. So why is it frustrating that after so much work, that nearly 100 pages seems like such a small result? Wasn't that the point, after all? Of course, the only answer is that I'm tired of writing my dissertation, and I want it to be finished. At the same time, I'm excited at what I'm discovering. Yes, what many of us (us being techrhets--composition rhetoric folks who love computers) have believed for so long really can be supported by solid empirical data and not just the anecdotal evidence we have relied on. (Not to bash the anecdotal, but I am trying here to fill an empirical void, ya know?) At least I got to celebrate the near-end over Christmas break, meeting up with my family at the cave. For the last week, I've been trying to answer the question, "So, how was the cave?" Words are inadequate, and I keep wanting to find a metaphor. It was Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous meets Lord of the Rings. It was beautifully raw, primitively modern (or was it modernly primitive?). Mostly it was wonderful to be alone in the earth with my family, immersed (encaved) in God's creative wonders that few ever see. I even got my picture taken with a bat! How often does a girl get a chance like that? Writing, as a process, is chaotic, hopefully producing a more ordered, meaningful result. My dissertation--still in chaos--calls. Today it snowed.

2002-09-11T21:20:00.000-05:00

Well, unlike Eliot and Bethany, I did go to chapel today. I haven't been to many chapels yet this semester because if I walk that far, I'm done for the rest of the day. But today's chapel was in the Mall instead of the Assembly Building, so it wasn't too far to walk. I had to find a seat since I couldn't stand very long, so I ended up sharing a bench with two students I still haven't met. They welcomed me to their bench, but chapel had begun, so we couldn't really talk. Balloons. A bit strange, yes, but life is strange. The plan was to let them loose all at once, all 3,000 plus of them, one for every life lost on September 11. But lots of them got away early or popped, leaving their owners holding lifeless strings. Yes, life is like that. When we finally relased them, they looked like a scatter of red, white, and blue bubble gum balls thrown across the sky. People hesitated, paused, watched, some for a long time. They slipped away quickly into the wind, then seemed almost to stand still and wait--like something else was supposed to happen. One of my students asked whether 9/11 should be a national holiday, and the class talked about that for awhile. It's an argument class, after all, so why not? Make a claim of policy: 9/11 should or should not be a national holiday. Defend it with a claim of definition: what constitutes a national holiday? What qualifies? Add a claim of value: national holidays are good to make us remember--or do we just spend another day at the lake? My friend is hurting tonight, and I can help only so much. Pain is personal. School may be too much right now. She needs wisdom. She needs sleep. Balloons. Rising into the sky. Light, airy, fragile, nothing but vapor, here and gone. I will lift up my eyes to the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord.

2002-07-29T21:48:00.000-05:00

Cast-away I always thought that people who take off their own casts are crazy. I was right. Last night I was crazy. Gauze, 2 layers of stocking, ace wrap, plaster, and fiberglass--who wraps this much stuff around any part of their body in the 105^o heat index of a Texas summer? Equation: all that stuff + heat index = heat rash (aka burning pain). Worse than the surgery. It had to go. Missed Kodak moment: 4:45 a.m. In response to my call, "Ken, I need help," my husband appears in the living room to find a pile of plaster and padding in front of my recliner chair. Missed home video opportunity: watching a sleepless crazed woman ripping a cast off her leg with her bare hands. Captured digital image: stitches, bruises, wires with round tops that look like small eyes sticking out of my foot. I'd post the image, but it's not for the faint of heart. Literary allusion(s): Call me....Frankenfoot.

2002-07-17T16:08:00.000-05:00

The wonders of modern medicine--making me wonder--- Why does one walk into a hospital, voluntarily and not under coercion, to have one's foot cut open? That question occurred to me a few weeks ago when I did just that walking and for just that purpose. Never mind that every step of the walk hurt--carefully disguised pain most of the time but steadily worsening. How dishonest that we disguise pain--of the body and even more, of the spirit. How ironic it takes pain to get our attention, that pain is the precursor to healing. How much more ironic that pain must become so much worse in order to get better. Post-surgical nerves scream in protest and the weight of a cast matches the one my spirit struggles against. We talk of walking by faith. This is non-walking by faith--trusting in healing, trusting that if, as doctor orders, I stay off of this foot for 4 weeks, the healed version will be better than the pre-surgical state and the process worth the pain. I wonder, will it work?

2002-07-07T00:51:00.000-05:00

clouds and sunsets Tonight I flew from Dallas to Salt Lake City. We flew just under a rift of dark, heavy clouds and were pummeled about by them a bit, but the view was beautiful. As we approached the valley and saw our first view of the Great Salt Lake, the sun was slinking down behind the mountains, leaving a red glow to mark its path. It was a moment of brilliance and beauty, the kind that is shrouded by earth's smog and best viewed from the sky.

2002-06-30T22:13:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, I was weeding my vegetable garden when a storm moved in. It sounded like a large vehicle approaching, getting louder as it moved closer. The only weird thing was that it was moving in from the back corner of the pasture, over the top of the woods where no roads exist for vehicles to travel. I watched and listened as the storm moved up to and over me, first in small hesitant droplets, and then in heavy splashing drops of rain. I left my tools and started for the house, still on the edge of the storm and keeping pace with it as I walked. It didn't fully overtake me until I reached the carport. Then, as if to win in a game of tag, the storm reached ahead of me and began to pelt me with the heavy rainfall at the heart of the storm. I walked right through the house and out onto the covered deck where I could watch it and bask in its mist. The next day, I was weeding again when another rainstorm blew in. This one was not at all like the first. Instead of a steadily-moving storm, focused and directed, this rain began right overhead and around me, letting go a few hesitant drops here and there as if to try it out and see if it felt good. I sat on my weeding stool and contemplated whether to head for the house. I figured that if I picked up my tools and walked up, the rain would quit as soon as I reached the carport or the deck. Then I heard my mother's voice, deeply ingrained in memory. When I was young, she used to tell me, "You don't have the sense to come in out of the rain." I guess that was excuse enough, so I decided to stay right where I was and try it out. I bent back over my beet plants, carefully sorting the seedlings from the weeds surrounding them, and let the cool drops fall blissfully on my back and shoulders. After a few minutes, the clouds moved on, and the rain stopped. I almost missed it. guess that maybe I had the sense not to come in out of the rain.