BJ's Blog

I seem to be at the stage of writing where I need to surround myself with the appropriate accoutrements: carving out a space in the computer room amongst all of Jake’s stuff; using a Barnes & Noble gift card that I received for reviewing the Norton Anthology to buy a nice leather journal, a collection of Penguin mini notebooks, and a laptop lap desk; adding an appointment labeled “write” (in light purple), consisting of 3-hour blocks, twice a week to my Google Calendar; piling my issues of Poets & Writers on the filing cabinet nearby; reading the chapter “Shitty First Drafts” in Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird; circling, circling, circling, around the task of writing and hoping, hoping, hoping that the inspiration or motivation or something from someplace I can’t yet tap into comes to me and makes this whole thing happen. I hate to channel “Mad Men,” but there it is…after watching Don drink himself into oblivion yet again, Freddy tells him to just “do the work.” Next morning, Don’s back at Sterling Cooper & Partners. So, Becky, do the work!

I don’t suffer from anxiety–at least not in a debilitating way. I’ve never had a panic attack. But I watched Scott have one in 1986. We (he, James, and I) were sharing an apartment–the Silver Bullet–in SLC. He had smoked some pot then had this crazy reaction to it: panting, sweating, and basically freaking out. We thought maybe there was something in the pot, but no one else had this reaction. I sat with him in his darkened room while he tried to breathe. He seemed to be dying. But we didn’t call the ambulance–no one else seemed all that worried, in fact. Why was I? Eventually he settled down and fell asleep.

More later…

From the OED:

Colleague: One who is associated with another (or others) in office, or special employment; strictly, said of those who stand in the same relationship to their electors, or to the office which they jointly discharge. (Not applied to partners in trade or manufacture.)

I’ve come to think of “colleague” as a more collegial relationship, per Weber State’s PPM (http://www.weber.edu/ppm/Policies/9-6_FacultyResponsibilitiesColle.html):

A. Ethical Canons: As colleagues, faculty have obligations that derive from common membership in a community of scholars. They respect and defend the free inquiry of associates. In the exchange of criticism and ideas, they show due respect for the opinions of others. They acknowledge academic debts and strive to be objective in the professional judgment of colleagues. Faculty accept their share of faculty responsibilities for the governance of the institution (based upon the AAUP Statement of Professional Ethics, 1966).

Recent interactions with a colleague (a hostile department meeting and complaints filed against each other) prompted my investigation into the concept of “colleague” and forced me to reflect on my relationship to said individual. Essentially, I’ve needed to work the 12 steps on this: 1. We admitted we were powerless over ___ and that our lives had become unmanageable, 2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity, etc. Through this process–especially the 4th step inventory–I’ve traced the origins of the trouble with our relationship and begun to admit my involvement in the problem. I believe I haven’t respect her as she deserves to be respected. How can I expect others to respect me if I don’t respect them?

One of my shortcomings is believing I’m right. I gather people to my side, compile reasons for my viewpoint, and cling to my righteous position at all costs. Sometimes I am right; however, often, I’m quite lost in my own virtuous sense of the universe. I need to hear other opinions, even if they’re shared in a less-than-respectful voice. I need to listen beyond the pain and anger and remember that “hurt people hurt people.” This is true for me as much as it is true for the other person.

I don’t know and can’t possibly imagine how it feels to lose both of your children. Both, taken in an instant, while the 16-year old was driving. The 12-year old riding along with his sister. On spring break, along the a road I’ve traveled so many times between Spanish Fork and Moab. My 16-year old son met her once. She attended Bonneville High School, ran track, played basketball. Some of his friends knew her quite well. He’s asked about taking the car, with his friends, for a trip to southern Utah. What do I say now?

I’m stunned as I try to imagine how the parents of these two young people feel. They have no other children, at least according to the obituary in today’s paper. What do they do now? Have more children? Adopt some? Become numb?

When I first started taking anti-depressants in 2002, I went numb. I was taking Prozac, generically called Fluoxetine. I have a vivd recollection of staring out the window, watching my children play–they were 2 and 4–and thinking if they were hit by a car I wouldn’t mind. I remember thinking it wouldn’t phase me. The feeling, the realization that I lacked feeling, jolted me. I called my physician, made an appointment, and quickly transitioned to a new drug…one that allowed me to feel. I didn’t want to cry all the time, as I had been, but I did want to feel emotion.

The flat-line effect terrified me. I used to say I craved numbness, but having experienced it for a couple of months, I no longer say that. I want to cry, to rage, to grieve, to ache, to rejoice, to smile with utter joy at the gift of my childrens’ lives. I know how all of that feels. But I don’t know how the loss of their lives would feel. I imagine sending empathetic strands toward the parents, weaving these strands into blankets of love and love and love that will wrap around them, holding them together until they find a way to stand again.

Saw Eric Samuelen’s “3” with Katy last night. Quite thought-provoking–especially “Community Standard,” which investigates whether or not pornography violates the community’s standards or accurately represents what the community deems acceptable if kept hidden.

This is a cool idea: 26-minute memoir project. And would be something I could do for a writing prompt or perhaps even daily for a while.

Also, this article may help me with my vision, as I’m struggling with the format I want my memoir to take: How to Write a Personal Essay.

I just bought On the Outskirts of Normal, to prepare for my summer workshop with Debra Monroe. I have lots of reading–not to mention writing–to do before mid-July. I need to read Phillip Lopate’s book To Show and To Tell: The Craft of Literary Nonfiction and am hoping to submit something to Creative Nonfiction’s Memoir Issue by the end of May.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my divorce becoming final. I wondered how I would feel about this day…turns out I’m sad. And sensitive and vulnerable and confused and agitated and distracted. This morning I told myself to be gentle and kind to “me” today. I have been. I let Maggie stay home from school with what seemed like a growing panic attack, shared my feelings with Sally, practiced yoga, opted out of a potentially contentious MENG Steering Committee meeting, bought myself a good coffee at Arts Elements, stopped to watch the ducks on the pond, and parked myself on the couch to do some writing. Tonight, I’m chairing the al-anon meeting.

So there’s the divorce anniversary–seems weird to combine those words–and there’s also some other anniversaries: 6 years ago, Jake and I had pneumonia. The worst of it hit me in February. Maggie turned 8 and had a birthday party at OHS pool. I felt so lousy there that after the party I took myself to Instacare. This year, I have walking pneumonia. Another February lost to illness. It’s the shortest month of the year, yet it holds these momentous events: my babies born (1998 and 2000); my depression diagnosed (2002); pneumonias suffered (2008 and 2014); Winter Olympics played (2002, 2006, 2010, 2014, etc.). Why do these 28 or 29 days pack such a wallop?

Looking back on my posts, I seem to be in a “once a month” pattern. Dismal. But I’ve decided to forgive myself for not writing as much I’d like.

I’m also forgiving myself for not reading as much as I’d like. A friend suggested I put the growing stack of unread books in the closet or someplace out of sight and forget about them for a while. She said they have a “shelf of shame” at their house. I may need an entire case. It’s gotten so bad that I dread receiving books because I feel a need to confess that I probably won’t read them–at least not anytime soon. The last time I had this feeling, this problem, was after I finished my dissertation. I couldn’t read anything except short articles in magazines for about 6 months. Not even a mystery. What’s up with me? Why is this happening now? How was I able to read Moby Dick while teaching a full load? Where did I find the time for that? I’m trying not to freak out about this development, consoling myself that it’s just a phase, that I simply need a sabbatical, but still. I live to read…don’t I?

My American Literature class will be discussing The Red Badge of Courage, so I’ll have to read that. And I will. It’s the other stuff–the books I don’t necessarily have to read but want to–or at least think I want to–read. Hm. This may be one of those issues that I need to let go of. Set it aside. Put it on a shelf.

Swimming today. Skiing with Maggie tomorrow. We had a blast last weekend at Powder Mountain. It’s great to see her skiing again. And I’ve missed it too.

I’m spinning here, trying to remember what I wanted to write about. There was something…something elusive. Ah maybe this: I read in the paper today that Theresa Novak, minister of UUCO, is moving back to California with her wife/partner. The story brought back my time with UUCO and my frustrations with the church. If life is always a battle being waged against the people who disagree with us, then we’ll never be happy. I couldn’t live that way anymore. But I also thought about my own actions in the department. Were they similar to Theresa’s? I guess we all reach a point where we have to decide what’s best for us. She obviously got to a point where Utah wasn’t tolerable to her anymore. Similarly, I reached a point where my position as assistant chair was no longer tolerable to me. It’s okay to leave, to quit, to opt out.

Maybe that’s what I wanted to write about. Letting go of stuff: guilt, books, actions, obsessions, fears, failures, successes even.

It’s snowing. A lovely day for staying inside, cleaning the house, wrapping presents, and generally preparing for Christmas. I’ve given myself the gift of hanging out at home this morning and avoiding the snowy roads. Yet I’m strangely agitated. Is it Christmas? Is it the sense of unstructured time? Two weeks of time to play with, to shape into something meaningful? I’m reminded that I need to focus on the one day at a time and look at doing things just for today. After chasing my tail around this morning–trying to decide which task I should tackle first (first things first)–I realized that I could/should write about what’s happening.

The birds are hungry…feeders covered in snow and ice. And the cat is somewhere out there stalking them. The dogs are lounged about on couches. Scott Simon is telling a story about a guy who’s worn the same outfit for his school photo for 40 some odd years. I sit here typing, wondering what I’m supposed to say and do. Perhaps I’ll let this feeling settle over me–not something I usually do. When I feel this way, at loose ends, I usually generate some drama, develop a project, create a mess that needs cleaning up. Why? What is wrong with feeling agitated? Obviously I don’t want to feel this way forever, so I can thank God that I don’t feel this way all of the time, but I probably need to understand the depths of this feeling…explore its margins, move through its intricacies.

Options. Too many options. I’m daunted by choices. So on a day like today, my choices overwhelm me. I could practice some yoga, I could vacuum, I could finish my book, I could wrap some presents, I could meditate, I could shovel, I could drive to Fruit Heights, I could bake some cranberry bread, I could watch “Breaking Bad,” I could plan my break, I could call family, I could read some magazines, I could…I could…I could…. But I don’t. I sit, with my feet tucked under Henry, writing this blog…writing this blog…writing this blog.

Reminds me of the two sessions I wrote for National Novel Writing Month. The process was liberating: cranking out as many words as possible in a compressed time frame. I liked the freedom that that kind of writing gave me. I didn’t worry about spelling, grammar, cohesion, etc. The process helped me get out of my head and into my heart. Stuff came out that I wasn’t expecting–stuff I’ll probably return to and refine for the memoir project. My instincts tell me to write, to take a sabbatical next fall. At 3 in the morning, when I can’t sleep, my instincts tell me to read or get up and write something. The story I just heard on NPR, embracing the night, resonates with me. Why not use the time that I spend lying in bed engaging in what Wes refers to as “mental masturbation,” to write?

Fear. Fear dictates so much of my life. I let fear control my decision making. I’m afraid of writing honestly, of putting stuff on paper that makes me uncomfortable or that may make other people uncomfortable. I hope to break through some of that fear over the next year and especially on sabbatical. As much as I let fear rule me, I also crave release from it. Even as I’m afraid of letting go of fear. Does that even make sense? It probably makes sense to some of my Al-Anon friends.

And already I feel better. Diving into the agitation, I’ve found some serenity. I need to remember that this feeling exists for a reason. It presents me with an opportunity to enter the place of creativity, to pause in my racing around and linger over the thoughts swirling through my head. To let the thoughts settle, like grounds of coffee in a cup. Let them settle.

On my previous sabbatical (Fall 2008), I researched women’s writing and read letters that my mother (Harriett Ann McDonough Gesteland) wrote to her mother-in-law (Berniece Jeanette Elver Gesteland) from 1956 to 1990. My goal was to trace the development of my mother’s feminist persona. I began a writer’s blog—which I continue to write—and outlined a biography of my mother. Since I’d written my dissertation about women’s southwestern autobiographies, I thought I was prepared to write such a book. However, writing about autobiographies and actually writing an auto/biographical account are quite different activities. I drafted an essay about my mother grandmother (“Breaking boundaries: A thirty-year relationship in letters from a daughter to her mother-in-law), but decided that I needed to take Judy Elsley’s “Life Writing” class at Weber State University, which I did (Fall 2011).

In Judy’s class I drafted two autobiographical pieces (“Addicted” and “Fanning the Flames”) and sent the latter out for review. After receiving a rejection and helpful feedback, I continued writing and blogging and resolved to write a memoir that incorporated all of these various elements. This resolution led me to the 15^th Annual Taos Summer Writers’ Conference (Summer 2013), where I participated in BK Loren’s workshop, “Beginning Memoir.” There, I drafted a piece about my ex (“!@#$”) and continued developing a shape for my memoir. I now have that shape.

Within the textile world, the noun “warp” refers to the series of parallel yarns that are strung on a loom to form the foundation of a woven fabric. The verb “to warp” means to wind yarn onto the warp beam. In a textual sense, warping and weaving mimic the act of writing. First a writer strings her warp, lays the foundation for her fabric (text), by twisting or raveling the yarn (raw narrative material: experiences, thoughts, images, and so on) into orderly lines. Then she weaves through them her design and creates the woof, the texture of her fabric. I want to retrieve the warping process of my life and reveal how the warp lays a foundation for the woof, how my experience supports the creation of a text.

Tentative title: Warping

Preliminary outline:

1. Knitting – about my mother  & grandmother (Mom’s mother-in-law)
2. Breast cancer – about my aunt (Mom’s sister) and her smoking, drinking, and cancer
3. Fanning the flames – about graduate school, my boyfriend, and my summer firefighting in Yellowstone
4. Addicted – about my grandmother (Mom’s mother)
5. Panic attacks – about my boyfriend and my daughter
6. Hula hoop – about my ex

In the Taos workshop I met four women (Liisa Atva, Shelley Armitage—an American Studies hero of mine—Debora Murray, and Ouida Touchon) with whom I’ve formed a writing group. We now review, edit, and encourage each other in our various writing projects. Moreover, these women have helped me discover avenues for publication.

My experience at Taos was so positive that I hope to receive funding to attend the workshop on “Intermediate/Advanced Memoir” that will be offered in summer 2014. Then I will revise and submit my new pieces for publication. By the end of fall, I hope to have a book proposal ready for review.

My higher power certainly wants me to learn something, though I’m still not sure what it is. I thought the atmosphere at work and the situation as assistant chair couldn’t get much worse, but it has. After the department meeting on September 25th, Vicki sent this a toxic reply to my letter and I posted this statement on Facebook post:

“what happens when you speak up? people piss all over you. feel like crawling in a hole for a while.”

This post led to someone from Foreign Language telling Kathy that I posted something inappropriate about the department. When I spoke with her yesterday, she

• told me I’d “lost the trust of the department”
• informed me that “people do not want to serve on the curriculum committee with me”
• called me manipulative for not speaking at the department meeting and submitting a letter of explanation instead
• declared me rude for discussing Jim’s schedule in public
• threatened me about posting on Facebook

Basically, she laid all of the strife at my feet. Because I spoke up and questioned the decision to hire in English Education, I was in the wrong and am to blame for all of the trouble we’ve had since the announcement was made. I refuse to accept responsibility for things beyond my control. This led to my next post on Facebook:

“not supposed to talk about my state-of-mind on FB…someone told my boss that I do stuff like that. need to be quiet. isn’t that what they told women a hundred years ago?”

Okay, I probably shouldn’t have posted that, but I was mad! And you know, if someone tells me I’m not allowed to do something I’m pretty much guaranteed to do it. It produced an email response from Kathy:

“You also need to know that a colleague in FL told me today how surprising it was to read your Facebook message about being warned abut posting items about your job on that site.”

Apparently I was warned and posted anyway. So I resigned and said, among other things,

“I stand by my decision to report to the dean that we did not reach consensus on the hiring priorities for this year. All I ever wanted was a vote by the department. Somehow you have perceived my speaking the truth as something personal. This was an issue about principles. Clearly I’m feeling hamstrung and undermined by “people” who refuse to speak to me face-to-face.”

She’s trying to talk me out of it.