I'd first like to thank Holly for inviting me to contribute. I hope you don't regret it.
I like leisure time. I like to sit and enjoy the quiet and do nothing. I like a good afternoon nap. Sometimes I like to just waste my time with anything that will occupy it. I like to do nothing. But when there is nothing to do, no work to be done at work while at the same time there are tons of things I could be getting done at home--I don't like that.
So there I was at work last week: my desk was tidy, the mail was in everybody's box, nearly everyone was gone, and I had nothing to do. On occasion a small break is nice. I like to read my book and get involved in the story. But I had just finished my book the night before. I had read both newspapers (though not American Banker). I had read the magazine on my desk--at least all that I cared to read in it. I had already checked both email accounts AND facebook. I was bored. In despair--or something related to it--I put my head on my desk. A nap would be wonderful, I thought to myself. Then, hearing footsteps in the hall, I hurriedly raised my head to see a co-worker return for the afternoon. I was a little embarrassed, being caught trying to sleep on the job. What a relief when he spoke, "Go home! There's nothing to do here, anyway." So I did.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Strange Dreams
I've recently begun acting out my fantasies while I dream. This afternoon, I fell asleep on the couch after watching an episode of The X-Files (fifth episode in season three, if you wanted to know), and quickly I slipped back into my 8:00 a.m. classroom. My students were all there, sitting in a circle for discussion, and one student--whose name I shall refrain from divulging--was asleep with his head on the desk, his hat twisted around so that the bill stood straight up in the air. Though this is not exactly typical behavior of this particular student, it pretty much represents the energy level of the whole class, every day, for the past four and a half weeks.
Someone brought the boy to my attention. My aggravation flared up, and strode over to him, well aware of all other eyes on me, and whipped my hand across the bill of the hat to knock it off his head and so wake him up. "OK," I said, "everyone out." I stared at the boy as he lifted his head in fear, the other students hurrying out the door. Once we were alone, I said, "How are you doing, _______?" Suddenly, I was all compassion.
How typical of me! I set forth rigid policies in my syllabus, and present myself as unbending, unflinching, maybe even cold. But put me one-on-one with a student who slept in, didn't finish an assignment, wants to get back into a class he dropped five weeks ago . . . and I have pity. "What can I do for you? How can I help?" Does this say that I'm a softie? That I can't stick to my guns? Am I a pushover? Or dare I call it something nobler--merciful? Nah, that's too noble.
Someone brought the boy to my attention. My aggravation flared up, and strode over to him, well aware of all other eyes on me, and whipped my hand across the bill of the hat to knock it off his head and so wake him up. "OK," I said, "everyone out." I stared at the boy as he lifted his head in fear, the other students hurrying out the door. Once we were alone, I said, "How are you doing, _______?" Suddenly, I was all compassion.
How typical of me! I set forth rigid policies in my syllabus, and present myself as unbending, unflinching, maybe even cold. But put me one-on-one with a student who slept in, didn't finish an assignment, wants to get back into a class he dropped five weeks ago . . . and I have pity. "What can I do for you? How can I help?" Does this say that I'm a softie? That I can't stick to my guns? Am I a pushover? Or dare I call it something nobler--merciful? Nah, that's too noble.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Dump
A recent, heavy snowfall took down a number of large branches in the backyard of my parents' house. I'm home for the weekend, so it was my happy privilege to assist in the cleanup. Dad found an excuse to use his chainsaw, and after loading the truck with hacked branches and covering the bed with a new tarp, Dad, Sam, and I took a quick trip to the local dump.
The gulls were my first indication of our approach to the "sanitary landfill." I never notice these scavenger birds anywhere else in Norther Indiana, and they remind me of vacations and giant parking lots of amusement parks and California beaches. These are not vacation birds. They are attracted to the grimy decay of the collected waste products of all of Elkhart County, and maybe beyond. I don't know. I don't really care to. Circling the gray, compacted mounds, the gulls caw and dive, and I watch them peck those long, grit-stained beaks into what had once been welcome in Grandma's refrigerator. Seven months ago. They barely move out of the way of our truck as it jostles us over worn tracks to the top of one particularly giant pile of trash. This is their rubbish mound--they have claimed it. We are but building their kingdom.
When we pull to a stop, I reluctantly leave the clean cabin of the truck, our protective pod, and my feet sink an inch or two into what I hope is just mud. I know it isn't just, but I don't want to think about what else lies beneath my feet: the remains of mundane human activity, the evidence of our daily existence, now the property of gulls. I try to make sense of the things I see; I don't want to look to long at any one mound. Is that a blanket? A sack, maybe. A diaper. Perhaps none of these things. It might have been white, once. It may have even been soft. Whatever it once was, its use had expired. Here, upon a rancid heap of abjection, the thing, no longer identifiable, made its last and everlasting home, its only visitor now the gulls.
I smelled it all the way home, eager for a shower.
The gulls were my first indication of our approach to the "sanitary landfill." I never notice these scavenger birds anywhere else in Norther Indiana, and they remind me of vacations and giant parking lots of amusement parks and California beaches. These are not vacation birds. They are attracted to the grimy decay of the collected waste products of all of Elkhart County, and maybe beyond. I don't know. I don't really care to. Circling the gray, compacted mounds, the gulls caw and dive, and I watch them peck those long, grit-stained beaks into what had once been welcome in Grandma's refrigerator. Seven months ago. They barely move out of the way of our truck as it jostles us over worn tracks to the top of one particularly giant pile of trash. This is their rubbish mound--they have claimed it. We are but building their kingdom.
When we pull to a stop, I reluctantly leave the clean cabin of the truck, our protective pod, and my feet sink an inch or two into what I hope is just mud. I know it isn't just, but I don't want to think about what else lies beneath my feet: the remains of mundane human activity, the evidence of our daily existence, now the property of gulls. I try to make sense of the things I see; I don't want to look to long at any one mound. Is that a blanket? A sack, maybe. A diaper. Perhaps none of these things. It might have been white, once. It may have even been soft. Whatever it once was, its use had expired. Here, upon a rancid heap of abjection, the thing, no longer identifiable, made its last and everlasting home, its only visitor now the gulls.
I smelled it all the way home, eager for a shower.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Patience
I did not lose my patience today, and for that I congratulate myself.
It seemed like such the thing to do. I have previously (and perhaps too frequently, I might add) lost my patience with someone's tone of voice (too whiny, too falsetto, too flat), with people encroaching on my bubble (just because it is a public computer doesn't mean I have no qualms with you watching me google search or write emails), and especially with things that make me wait. I hate waiting. When I get it in my mind to do something, I want it done. No where is this particular catalyst for my annoyance more sharp than when I drive. Everyone knows (or ought to) that the "speed limit" really means a minimum of five over (ten on freeways). That's just sense. So why is that biker passing you on the right?
About a week ago, I got it into my head that I needed to start exercising more. I am up at 6:30 ever day, I teach at 8:00, and I'm done by 9:00. As part of my newly self-enforced regimen, the hour between 9:00 and 10:00 a.m. is dedicated to a 30-minute elliptical session (I hate running) at the gym, allowing time to change, stretch, and shower. To my own amazement--mostly due to a usual lack of self-discipline--I haven't missed a day yet.
This morning, a friend who works out at the same gym forgot her wallet at home. Translation: No ID, no entrance. I laughed at her but sympathized as she fumed and flustered about, making plans to return home for it. "I would just consign myself to skipping," I thought, had our situations been reversed. My class ended, I pocketed my cell phone, keys, and iPod, and walked down the hill toward my parked car and the gym. After retrieving my gym bag from the car, I contentedly proceeded toward the front doors of the gym, and there stopped short. I had forgotten my wallet (read: ID). "Shucks," I said aloud. And I turned back to the hill toward Ellis Hall. Ten minutes later, I was changing in the locker room.
A moment's disappointment, sure, at having to walk back to where I had just been. But other than that, I felt no frustrations at being 20 minutes behind my normal schedule. Though I hate trekking up that hill every day, having to surmount it twice in one morning didn't bother me. For some inexplicable reason, I had all the patience in the world.
Let me tell you, it's a good feeling.
It seemed like such the thing to do. I have previously (and perhaps too frequently, I might add) lost my patience with someone's tone of voice (too whiny, too falsetto, too flat), with people encroaching on my bubble (just because it is a public computer doesn't mean I have no qualms with you watching me google search or write emails), and especially with things that make me wait. I hate waiting. When I get it in my mind to do something, I want it done. No where is this particular catalyst for my annoyance more sharp than when I drive. Everyone knows (or ought to) that the "speed limit" really means a minimum of five over (ten on freeways). That's just sense. So why is that biker passing you on the right?
About a week ago, I got it into my head that I needed to start exercising more. I am up at 6:30 ever day, I teach at 8:00, and I'm done by 9:00. As part of my newly self-enforced regimen, the hour between 9:00 and 10:00 a.m. is dedicated to a 30-minute elliptical session (I hate running) at the gym, allowing time to change, stretch, and shower. To my own amazement--mostly due to a usual lack of self-discipline--I haven't missed a day yet.
This morning, a friend who works out at the same gym forgot her wallet at home. Translation: No ID, no entrance. I laughed at her but sympathized as she fumed and flustered about, making plans to return home for it. "I would just consign myself to skipping," I thought, had our situations been reversed. My class ended, I pocketed my cell phone, keys, and iPod, and walked down the hill toward my parked car and the gym. After retrieving my gym bag from the car, I contentedly proceeded toward the front doors of the gym, and there stopped short. I had forgotten my wallet (read: ID). "Shucks," I said aloud. And I turned back to the hill toward Ellis Hall. Ten minutes later, I was changing in the locker room.
A moment's disappointment, sure, at having to walk back to where I had just been. But other than that, I felt no frustrations at being 20 minutes behind my normal schedule. Though I hate trekking up that hill every day, having to surmount it twice in one morning didn't bother me. For some inexplicable reason, I had all the patience in the world.
Let me tell you, it's a good feeling.
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