Today is the first day I wake up drenched in sweat
And only one blanket
The first day I don't scurry on tiptoes across the tile
But walk flat-footed
It is the first day my children throw down their jackets
And I join them
The first day the wind brings warmth
And the sun feels bright
And the asphalt smells
The first day the air around the rain
Feels like a doona,
Thick and suffocating
It's the first day that speaks of charred hot dogs and peach juice
Dripping down my arm
Of watermelon so crisp it spits as you bite it
Of mosquitoes and thunderstorms and the want of cool
Today is the first day I believe summer is near
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Monday, August 16, 2010
Murmuring
The talks in sacrament meeting today were all about murmuring, which I found somewhat amusing given I'm currently sick and I get very whiny when I don't feel good. Since I don't feel good, listening to a guilt trip on the sinfulness of complaining just left me thinking of ways to justify the grousing to which I am prone.
I mean, really, there are different kinds of complaining. Some criticism is truly constructive, and some is completely appropriate. If a need isn't being met, or isn't being met well, it's reasonable, especially as someone involved, to bring up problems and suggestions for improvement. When you're truly invested in a project, organization, or relationship it's an obligation to bring up issues that pose a hazard, even if some might call such issues complaints. The complaint then provides the complainant the opportunity to develop or deepen a relationship of trust as the issue is worked out. This is an active and healthy part of my marriage, especially now that we have a kid who complicates my life incredibly. At least, it's an active and healthy part once I get through the blowing off steam pre-complaining.
My blowing off steam pre-issue resolving complaining probably isn't the best thing in the world, but for me it serves a purpose. When I get emotionally wrapped up in an issue, I have a tendency to hold back with the person most directly causing my discomfort, usually giving the excuse I don't want to say anything I'd later regret. Blowing off steam sessions serve two purposes--I get the worst of the emotions off my chest and I get a chance to practice what to say and bounce ideas of how to say things off another person. Admittedly, pre-complaining is also a form of procrastination (and sometimes prevents the constructive phase entirely, though I've gotten better about that as I've become more confident), but I'm unconvinced overall it's a bad thing. For instance, about a year ago I had some issues with my advisor. Rather than send the nasty response that immediately came to mind, I complained to a friend, who then helped me come up with a better way to approach the situation, both in terms of a solution and in terms of how to say what needed to be said.
Unfortunately, I have to watch this kind of complaining lest I get carried away, or inadvertently leave my listeners with an inaccurate and negative view of the situation. It's all too easy for blowing off steam to turn into something that escalates problems rather than solving them. Which is where I think we start treading into murmuring.
Murmuring for me implies that the person doing the complaining on some level no longer cares about a positive outcome for the issue--at least--all the way up to attempting to undermine another, to destroy, or to hurt. That definitely qualifies as a sin. I don't think most of us get to this point very easily. I suspect it takes a severe broach of trust to encourage most of us into this sort of behavior. But it does happen.
This next paragraph may be a little personal (though I'll try to be vague). The reason this topic bugs me so much is because there was a time in my life when I murmured. I hurt and I no longer cared about the damage I did to anyone else with my complaining. I still feel bad about it. Looking back, I know what I was really asking for was reassurance from my listeners. I felt like a horrible person because of the failure of a relationship, because of the way it failed, and I wanted my friends to tell me I was still a good person, worthy of being loved and wanted. Instead of asking for that I mulled over the wrongs committed against me and recited them to anyone who would listen, I suppose hoping at some point the situation and the pain would make sense, that the missing piece of the situation would click into place and a clear, unimpeded view of things would emerge. Needless to say, I don't have many friends from that period of time.
It wasn't me. Not the person I strive to be, anyway. Which is probably why I try to refrain from most kinds of complaining today (as much as I'm able to control myself, that is). The thing is, that other girl, the lonely, ugly, unlovable girl is still a part of me, and when I hear talks like the ones today--the ones that imply you're a bad person if you complain--she comes out and reminds me that I'm a bad person. I'm a big fat, ugly complainer. Which I suppose brings me to the whole point of this exercise--to justify the behavior of a me who even I didn't like. To tell her it wasn't okay, but it was understandable, and forgivable.
And forgiveness is all I hope to find.
I mean, really, there are different kinds of complaining. Some criticism is truly constructive, and some is completely appropriate. If a need isn't being met, or isn't being met well, it's reasonable, especially as someone involved, to bring up problems and suggestions for improvement. When you're truly invested in a project, organization, or relationship it's an obligation to bring up issues that pose a hazard, even if some might call such issues complaints. The complaint then provides the complainant the opportunity to develop or deepen a relationship of trust as the issue is worked out. This is an active and healthy part of my marriage, especially now that we have a kid who complicates my life incredibly. At least, it's an active and healthy part once I get through the blowing off steam pre-complaining.
My blowing off steam pre-issue resolving complaining probably isn't the best thing in the world, but for me it serves a purpose. When I get emotionally wrapped up in an issue, I have a tendency to hold back with the person most directly causing my discomfort, usually giving the excuse I don't want to say anything I'd later regret. Blowing off steam sessions serve two purposes--I get the worst of the emotions off my chest and I get a chance to practice what to say and bounce ideas of how to say things off another person. Admittedly, pre-complaining is also a form of procrastination (and sometimes prevents the constructive phase entirely, though I've gotten better about that as I've become more confident), but I'm unconvinced overall it's a bad thing. For instance, about a year ago I had some issues with my advisor. Rather than send the nasty response that immediately came to mind, I complained to a friend, who then helped me come up with a better way to approach the situation, both in terms of a solution and in terms of how to say what needed to be said.
Unfortunately, I have to watch this kind of complaining lest I get carried away, or inadvertently leave my listeners with an inaccurate and negative view of the situation. It's all too easy for blowing off steam to turn into something that escalates problems rather than solving them. Which is where I think we start treading into murmuring.
Murmuring for me implies that the person doing the complaining on some level no longer cares about a positive outcome for the issue--at least--all the way up to attempting to undermine another, to destroy, or to hurt. That definitely qualifies as a sin. I don't think most of us get to this point very easily. I suspect it takes a severe broach of trust to encourage most of us into this sort of behavior. But it does happen.
This next paragraph may be a little personal (though I'll try to be vague). The reason this topic bugs me so much is because there was a time in my life when I murmured. I hurt and I no longer cared about the damage I did to anyone else with my complaining. I still feel bad about it. Looking back, I know what I was really asking for was reassurance from my listeners. I felt like a horrible person because of the failure of a relationship, because of the way it failed, and I wanted my friends to tell me I was still a good person, worthy of being loved and wanted. Instead of asking for that I mulled over the wrongs committed against me and recited them to anyone who would listen, I suppose hoping at some point the situation and the pain would make sense, that the missing piece of the situation would click into place and a clear, unimpeded view of things would emerge. Needless to say, I don't have many friends from that period of time.
It wasn't me. Not the person I strive to be, anyway. Which is probably why I try to refrain from most kinds of complaining today (as much as I'm able to control myself, that is). The thing is, that other girl, the lonely, ugly, unlovable girl is still a part of me, and when I hear talks like the ones today--the ones that imply you're a bad person if you complain--she comes out and reminds me that I'm a bad person. I'm a big fat, ugly complainer. Which I suppose brings me to the whole point of this exercise--to justify the behavior of a me who even I didn't like. To tell her it wasn't okay, but it was understandable, and forgivable.
And forgiveness is all I hope to find.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Missing writing
Last night was the last meeting of our ward's writing group. I have loved attending the writing group, and loved doing the writing (though I admit I've only finished a few of the assignments). The facilitator is a wonderful woman (my advisor's MIL, incidentally) who is an example to me of how to live a full, productive, and faithful life. I feel privileged to know her. I was apprehensive to move into this huge ward, where I imagined it would be easy to get lost and easy to never find friends. I'm so pleased that hasn't been my experience. They are so careful to watch over everyone and to make sure everyone has a place and a job. All too often it seems like once a woman reaches a "certain age" she's relegated to the family history center or some similarly "age appropriate" calling. In this ward the talents and hard-won experiences of these women of a certain age are used to their fullest, typically in teaching us younger women how to grow into the vibrant, talented women we can become.
Anyway, I read an essay I wrote in February on the plane to Providence. The response I received was probably the highest compliment anyone could have given me--people discussed their own lives and their own difficult, testimony-challenging experiences. I trembled after reading the essay, and wasn't even sure I wanted to look into the faces of the women around the table when I was done, I was so scared I'd offended one of them. But no, they took what I said, and accepted it, and shared the way their own lives brought them to similar conclusions.
As scary as it is, I love sharing my thoughts and hearing the responses of others. Sometimes I think, hey, if this science thing doesn't work out, I can become a writer! Then, I sit down in front of a computer and convince myself I'm doing research by reading other people's blogs or news stories, and don't actually do any writing. Which was why it was nice to have a group I met with physically to share writing. Sure, I had an online writing group for a while (technically they haven't kicked me out yet, but I'm sure someone will eventually) but online groups are relatively easy to blow off. Meeting with people--with friends--in person puts more pressure to actually DO some writing instead of merely thinking about it. And hearing the writing of other women is inspiring and has been a great way to get to know them in a more meaningful, deeper way than is typical through just church interactions.
So, maybe when I get to San Diego I need to find a group of writing friends to force myself to actually write. Assuming, of course, that getting a post-doc doesn't pan out and I have to find some other way to spend my copious free time. Or maybe I'll have to start posting goals and achievements to my blog to keep myself motivated, since having goals and a little bit of competition seem to help me.
In the mean time, here's a poem(ish thing) I wrote for the group:
I don't like the way this starts
Beginnings are always hardest,
Full of blood and water, the carnage of birth
Painful, the shadow of death lurking behind the midwife's back
Every beginning unique, but how to capture fickle interest of
A reader with catastrophe on her mind?
In the beginning, it was the best of times, once upon a time, it was dark and stormy, when a truth, universally acknowledged...
Hang it all!
Baby cries on the table
Cold and hungry
Covered in the vernix of a long gestation
Beginnings unimportant in the face of her living
Growing so quickly beyond the way she began
I'll come back to it at the end.
Anyway, I read an essay I wrote in February on the plane to Providence. The response I received was probably the highest compliment anyone could have given me--people discussed their own lives and their own difficult, testimony-challenging experiences. I trembled after reading the essay, and wasn't even sure I wanted to look into the faces of the women around the table when I was done, I was so scared I'd offended one of them. But no, they took what I said, and accepted it, and shared the way their own lives brought them to similar conclusions.
As scary as it is, I love sharing my thoughts and hearing the responses of others. Sometimes I think, hey, if this science thing doesn't work out, I can become a writer! Then, I sit down in front of a computer and convince myself I'm doing research by reading other people's blogs or news stories, and don't actually do any writing. Which was why it was nice to have a group I met with physically to share writing. Sure, I had an online writing group for a while (technically they haven't kicked me out yet, but I'm sure someone will eventually) but online groups are relatively easy to blow off. Meeting with people--with friends--in person puts more pressure to actually DO some writing instead of merely thinking about it. And hearing the writing of other women is inspiring and has been a great way to get to know them in a more meaningful, deeper way than is typical through just church interactions.
So, maybe when I get to San Diego I need to find a group of writing friends to force myself to actually write. Assuming, of course, that getting a post-doc doesn't pan out and I have to find some other way to spend my copious free time. Or maybe I'll have to start posting goals and achievements to my blog to keep myself motivated, since having goals and a little bit of competition seem to help me.
In the mean time, here's a poem(ish thing) I wrote for the group:
I don't like the way this starts
Beginnings are always hardest,
Full of blood and water, the carnage of birth
Painful, the shadow of death lurking behind the midwife's back
Every beginning unique, but how to capture fickle interest of
A reader with catastrophe on her mind?
In the beginning, it was the best of times, once upon a time, it was dark and stormy, when a truth, universally acknowledged...
Hang it all!
Baby cries on the table
Cold and hungry
Covered in the vernix of a long gestation
Beginnings unimportant in the face of her living
Growing so quickly beyond the way she began
I'll come back to it at the end.
Friday, April 2, 2010
My body is not my own. I wake at some dark, unforgivably early hour to a small, toothy mouth wanting only to suckle, while the associated hand searches for the other nipple to grasp as if it were a handle. When the first side is finished, the hand releases its grip, only to push and pull the second nipple into position for the greedy mouth. Back and forth, the hand and mouth exchange positions for what feels like hours before they are satisfied and either return to fitful slumber or signal a tiny brain into intensely cheerful wakefulness.
The child lays herself over my neck, pushing on my throat and threatening to choke me. That positions' comforts exhausted, she rolls off and throws her bulk over her dad, arching her back over his bear-like form and extending her legs into my shoulder. If she is awake, her bouncing is punctuated by "Da" and "cat;" if she's still groggy she simply whines and growls until she wakes more fully, or I lower her from my bed to whine and growl on the floor.
And that is how my day begins.
When I shower my daughter attaches herself to me, clinging to my legs and begging to be held until I acquiesce, and the hungry mouth again finds its target. Eventually I convince her to play as I finish my shower, then finish getting us ready to leave.
When I am at work, I belong to myself again. I forget the child who wants so much from me, I forget how ever present she is. I luxuriate in the alone time--often too much. The hours fly by far too fast as I try to fit in all the work I need and the play I crave. Then, 5:00 comes and I have to retrieve my child from the other women who, in so many ways, know her better than I do, and yet can never truly substitute for me, and give myself, again, completely and whole to her needs.
The child lays herself over my neck, pushing on my throat and threatening to choke me. That positions' comforts exhausted, she rolls off and throws her bulk over her dad, arching her back over his bear-like form and extending her legs into my shoulder. If she is awake, her bouncing is punctuated by "Da" and "cat;" if she's still groggy she simply whines and growls until she wakes more fully, or I lower her from my bed to whine and growl on the floor.
And that is how my day begins.
When I shower my daughter attaches herself to me, clinging to my legs and begging to be held until I acquiesce, and the hungry mouth again finds its target. Eventually I convince her to play as I finish my shower, then finish getting us ready to leave.
When I am at work, I belong to myself again. I forget the child who wants so much from me, I forget how ever present she is. I luxuriate in the alone time--often too much. The hours fly by far too fast as I try to fit in all the work I need and the play I crave. Then, 5:00 comes and I have to retrieve my child from the other women who, in so many ways, know her better than I do, and yet can never truly substitute for me, and give myself, again, completely and whole to her needs.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
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