BJ's Blog

Apparently my menses are disorganized–at least that’s what my gynecologist informed me the other day. He prescribed some progesterone to help “organize” my cycle, get my body to return to its cycle of ovulation and menstruation. I’ve been stuck in “menstruation” for almost 4 weeks, so my body is confused. Disorganized. Once organized by the hormone, my body should cycle and shed the ovarian cyst that’s just hanging out, waiting to move but lacking the hormonal prompts to do so. Cyst: “Should I stay or should I go?” Poised to act. Looking for cues. Undecided. Disorganized.

If all goes well, in one month I’ll be organized….

I love the feeling of my bones slipping into place. The gentle shifts of my vertabrae finding their rightful spot; the dramatic pops of my hips relieving sciatic pain in my legs. The movements are like deep sighs, stress-relieving breaths, letting my body know that it will be alright, you will make it through another day.

And I struggle to write. Still overwhelmed with the various strands of my life. Juggling jobs, watching my body bloat with hormonal changes, wanting just to sleep and eat and knowing I should be exercising more, reading more, cleaning more, socializing more, weeding more. More, more, more. (I feel like I wrote about this compulsion recently…common theme.) So how to counteract the urge to do more? My head tells me to get organized; my heart to take a long walk in the mountains, road trip to Torrey, hike up Burro Wash, squeeze myself between the red-rock walls, clamber up a boulder, dig my toes into the sand, and stare up at the enclosing cliffs of the box canyon. That’s what I want to do. But today I can only stare at the piece of driftwood I collected last time I was there–a million years ago, with my partner, with toddlers who couldn’t quite navigate the last big rock, with a dog who’s no longer alive–and close my eyes and imagine the wet-sand smell, the cold-cavern breeze, and the quiet unlike any quiet I experience in my house, in my town. Odd how this longing overcomes me. And odd that I haven’t thought of this place in so long. Henry, who is 11 1/2, has never been there. Or has he? Maybe partway. Carlos made it, with some assistance. And Sadie and Maggie dog. And Louie, could that be? He was easy to lift over the big rocks. I used to keep track of these things: who went where and when. I used to keep meticulous notes on my calendar. Perhaps it’s freeing not tracking every life event. But it’s also sad. How will I remember everything?

My greatest fear is losing my mind. Like my grandmother. She wrote the names of people on the back of photographs and took notes while talking on the phone so she could remember. Later her system collapsed. She got lost at the Hildale Shopping Mall, forgetting where she parked her car. She forgot her sons, her grandkids, her name. But she remembered the song she sang to us when we stayed at her apartment, “My bonnie lies over the ocean, my bonnie lies over the sea, my bonnie lies over the ocean, oh bring back my bonnie to me.” Bring her back. Bring me back. Don’t forget me.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot–especially since my “Frontier” class in the summer. What is the American obsession with guns? Why do we, as a culture, cling so fiercely to our right to carry? How does this right trump the rights of ordinary citizens, students, children, parishioners to go about their lives doing what America promises them: to learn, speak, and worship freely?

My theory: we like the after-effect of a mass shooting. I know that sounds perverse, so let me explain. After a shooting–the killing of innocents–we locate the heroes, the people who sacrificed themselves for others, who took bullets for someone else, who tried to disarm the murderer, who stormed the airplane’s cabin and crashed the jet rather than allow the flight to hit its intended target. We like these stories a lot. I would argue that we like them so much that we’re willing to let mentally unstable people purchase arsenals that they later use to storm churches, schools, campuses, airplanes, and so on. The “beauty” of these mass shootings is the origin myth of America. Fighting our British oppressors, clambering our way Andrew-Carnegie style to the top of the capitalistic heap, fighting the federal government that oppresses us with labor laws, fighting “the man.” We fight, fight, fight. Birthed in violence, Americans re-enact the story over and over again in each incident of mass violence.

There are lots of academic books written about this cultural predisposition: historian Richard Slotkin’s Regeneration Through Violence and Gunfighter Nation, spring to mind. And the notion of a “frontier” perpetuates our violent tendencies. We crave vigilante justice. When laws don’t suit us–when the feds attempt to control us–we turn to tar & feathering, burning-at-the-stake, lynching, bombing, mass shooting. Of course you can argue that other cultures participate such violent movements well. True. But here in America, we like to think we do it bigger and better than anyone else. And we do. More deaths by gun violence here than anywhere else–by a long shot.

Guns–and our rights to own them (no matter how dysfunctional we may be)–are sacrosanct. Without our Browning rifles, who would we be? And this question names the real culprit here: fear. We fear the unknown world of gun control. We fear the changing landscape of America (abolition, women’s suffrage, immigrants, LGBT marriages) and want our guns to protect us from the unknown. Because guns are what protected us on the frontier.

But we don’t live on a frontier anymore. Not physically at least. The 1892 US Census marked the end of uninhabited land–less than two WHITE people per square mile–in the United States. We’ve not had a veritable “frontier” since the 19th century, and we’re now in the early decades of the 21st century. The frontier has closed, but our cultural need for the concept of a frontier hasn’t ended–and perhaps never well. As Americans, we desire a space that marks a more authentic experience of the world than the disembodied postmodern, technological world we actually inhabit. There, we can encounter our true selves and remember what it means to be human. In other words, the “frontier” makes us feel real. And so the myth of the frontier continues to describe what it means to be an American. So if American = frontier and frontier = guns, American = guns. We are our guns. Breaking down this equation means deconstructing the reality of American existence. A fear-ridden prospect.

All of it. The three offices, the three jobs, the three conferences, the evening events, the house cleaning, the yard work, the yoga classes, the dog walks, the journal reading, the essay writing, the step work, the college tours, the finances. And all of it some more.

Three weeks into the semester. Power of three. Me, Jake, and Maggie. Bubba, Henry, Charlie. Three, three, three. The rule of three; the power of three. Funnier, more memorable, simple. Holy.

But I couldn’t do it all this week…I collapsed on the couch Thursday afternoon and couldn’t rally until Saturday. I kept working, reading, emailing but couldn’t get to school or the CCEL retreat or the luncheon with the National Advisory Council. Too ill. Too tired. Too much.

Weakening. Doubt. Failure. I must do it all, I must do it perfectly. My negative self-talk creeps in whenever I feel weak. Then I doubt my abilities and qualifications. And then I feel like a failure. I’m such a fragile being. Tipping on the rim between high functioning adult and lump of quivering goo.

Wise people say that when you feel overwhelmed you should take more time–not less–to meditate, to sleep, to care for yourself. Yeah…

July a blur of trips; August a flurry of meetings and preparations for the semester; September a slap of heat, a freak deluge, thunder, lightning, and gusty winds. But today is fall. Crisp, cool–almost too cold for windows opened to freshness. The urgency to beat the heat each morning subsides. The day arcs out in new possibilities. I could walk the dogs later. I can read and write in the morning. My chores can wait. And Labor Day: a gift.

I need this time to pause. Still not used to the pace of my new working life. I haven’t found a rhythm yet. And the impending busyness torments my sleep. I wake with lists of people to email, tasks undone, calendaring nightmares. So here. Today. Breathe. Settle. Watch the world go by and contemplate peace.

Suss out where the chaos originates and let it wash over me. Reading Anthony Doerr’s Four Seasons in Rome…he talks about sleep: the more we chase it the more it eludes us. I fall into it easily but a cat, a memory, a worry, a fear wake me. Fear lets the chaos in. Lots of fear on board. New job = fear. Another essay published = fear. Renewed sense of confidence = fear. New people = fear. Thus the chaos. Usually I can unpack fear with a question, “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” I make mistakes at my new job (already done that, check). I’ll hurt people with my words (check). My confidence will wane (check). I’ll have to talk to people and some of them may not like me (check). So yeah. The worst has already happened. Some of it was awful–the reaction to my essay–but some of it was amazing. Several people reached out to me, wanted to share their experiences. Connections. New and renewed connections. The opposite of fear, of course–the concept I struggle with the most = acceptance. Argh.

I’m always lacking the courage to accept the things I cannot change. Though it may not be courage that I lack but the willingness to surrender. Sigh. That’s perhaps more doable. Release the control I think I have over my time, my calendar, all the undone tasks, all the things. Release all the things. Not that I ever held them in the first place. So the answer to my fears, accept that stuff will happen the way its meant to happen and that perhaps not everything will get done on my corpulent to-do list.

I’ve probably got several blog posts with this title, as it’s my constant issue. Not enough time, finding the time, making the time, wishing for more time. Yadda, yadda, yadda. And two months goes by without even a blog post. Mind you I’ve been busy: teaching two classes in the first 7-week block of summer; taking on a new administrative job in the A&H College; traveling to Torrey, Sun Valley, and northern California; etc., etc., etc.. But I’d like to write at least a little something every week because if I don’t the well will run dry.

The four essays I worked on last fall have been published or are forthcoming. And the Taos Summer Writers’ Conference published a blog about my work:
Success at the Sagebrush: Celebrating the Publication of TSWC Participant Becky Jo Gesteland
which is great and all; however, I need to keep generating material. Some ideas–submitted as part of my residency application packet to Hedgebrook:

1. Knitting – about the spiritual benefits of knitting and my mother and my knitting experiences
2. Breasts – about my aunt’s breast cancer, shopping for my daughter’s first bra, and my friend’s breast enhancement surgery
3. Fear – about my experiences with domestic violence and risky sexual behavior

I already have some stuff for the first one and may be able to rough something out before the end of summer. The second I haven’t even begun. The third I keep shying away from. Anyway, there it is. My bi-monthly progress report.

Now to some actual writing…

Distracted by grading literary analysis papers, writing press releases, refinancing a home equity loan, packing and unpacking, reading last-month’s magazines, and watching re-runs of “30 Rock,” I’ve neglected to spend any time with myself. I mean I’ve been doing yoga twice a week–when I’m in town–and walking the dogs, but apart from a short journal entry wherein I recollected how it felt to be in Sun Valley again [three years previously I’d realized my marriage was over while vacationing there (see Unraveling: Six Months – forthcoming in August)] I haven’t written anything substantive. It’s that time thing. Carving out space to think long enough to string together a loose collection of sentences around a vaguely intriguing topic. And there’s the rub too. I lack a vaguely intriguing topic. Knitting, breasts, and fear? I guess they sound mildly interesting. And here I am back to writing about writing rather than actually writing. I need to work on that getting in the moment thing.

Perhaps another day. I need to finish All the Light We Cannot See and watch some more TV.

The new issue of Palaver is out with my essay, “Divorce Education.” It feels anticlimactic. Always does. All the anticipation and then it’s there. The essay you wrote so many months ago. And it doesn’t sound as smart as you thought it did when you wrote it. And then there’s the reminder that you have to work on the next thing. And the realization that you should have been working on that next thing all along. And the feeling that you have nothing else to say. And the dreaded sense of doom that comes from struggling to put into words something that anyone else would ever want to read.

I feel like this is a common title for my blog posts…is it?

Tuesday was a day of wind, a day whipped up with pain. Ashley Szanter’s mom died suddenly, and I find myself caught up in the eddies. Machines breaking (Maggie’s phone, my computer) cannot compete with the gale of loss. The pain of one ripples out to others. I feel the gust of her exhale across the hallway. I hug Ashley and come away damp with tears. The gushing tears, the rush of exhaled pain, a vocalized airstream. Brenda heard her mother’s final exhalation and saw the air leave her body.

Not ready to write but feeling the need. I’ll come back to these notes after I listen to music.

It’s my spring break. So much to do, not enough time. I feel trapped by time. The switch to daylight savings time. I fritter it away–time.

List of things to do:

1. grade midterms
2. write an article
3. finish a book
4. watch “Breaking Bad”
5. clean house
6. weed yard
7. walk dogs
8. practice yoga
9. write essays
10. submit new work
11. clean garage
12. feed birds
13. wash rugs
14. read another book
15. read a magazine
16. watch “American Crime”
17. make dinner
18. bake cookies
19. brush teeth
20. shave legs
21. …

Yesterday in yin I realized that I’d spent most of my break focused on everything I hadn’t done rather than what I had. Negative rather than positive thinking.

Here’s what I have done:

1. wrote frontier syllabus
2. ordered textbooks
3. graded tools evaluations
4. washed clothes
5. paid bills
6. cleaned two bathrooms
7. practiced yoga
8. walked dogs
9. washed dishes
10. read two magazines
11. shopped for groceries twice
12. shopped at Costco
13. traveled to SLC for a visit with HERS sisters
14. traveled to Layton for bookgroup
15. chaired Al-Anon meeting
16. drove to and from DaVinci
17. met with Leah
18. outlined our paper
19. met with Holly
20. organized a step meeting
21. washed the car
22. watched “Mocking Jay, Part I”
23. weeded half of the front yard
24. picked up poop
25. spread grass seed
26. fed birds
27. made dinner
28. took a nap
29. brushed teeth
30. wrote a blog post
31. survived the switch to daylight savings time

I observe time slip by, help myself to its elongations in the mornings and surrender to its protractions in the evenings. I pad around the bulging hours from 8 to noon: a cat, nesting into a shawl clumped on the couch. I dig into the meat of the day from noon to 5: a dog, dashing to the door, offering a toy, whining, circling, demanding attention. I flit about the flashing hours from 5 to 10: a moth, on a suicide mission to the light, crazed by the brightness, burned in the glare. To crash into time’s oblivion in bed, at last. No more time. Only time.

The weather is too warm for early February. I’m convinced it’s making me edgy, agitated.

After enduring a run to Costco on Saturday afternoon, I saw her standing at the bus stop, corner of Harrison and 32nd Street. I waited at the light. She pulled the plastic string that sealed the top of her cigarette pack and threw it on the ground. She removed the top sheath and released it. She opened the lid and plucked off the foil, and let the bits fall from her fingers. The light changed, I turned up 32nd and passed up the opportunity to stop, to speak to her. Instead, I finished my turn and drove up the street. I didn’t see her remove a cigarette or watch her light it. I didn’t look in my mirror to see the bits of plastic and paper blow across the street and land in the gutter.

Four blocks later, I opened the garage and parked the car. I unloaded groceries. I unpacked the pizza, carefully putting the plastic wrapping in the garbage and stacking the box in the recycling pile. I cut the shrink-wrapped plastic holding together three orange juice bottles. Unsure about what to do with this material, I threw it away. I pulled off the packaging on the bananas and recycled that. As I carried the pile to the blue recycle bin outside I noticed a Doritos bag drift into the street.