My Tent on The Beach

Oh graduate school–it’s a mystery.  It’s a menace. It’s my life.  What am I doing? This past month has been absolutely nutty.  First, the backstory.  It was the sweet autumnal air of October that jolted me into a realization that, in order to continue to eat and sleep in this lovely apartment I now rent, I would have to apply for this dissertation fellowship due in January.  Now, in real life, that seems almost absurdly far-forward thinking.  In academia, I was already severely behind. Thus I commenced getting on my horse and writing these papers that have been torturing me for over a year.

My progress was good, by the holidays I was still on target–life was looking up.  And then came January.  Oh wicked winter month of January.  I cut my holidays short, I got my self back to Chicago and I hunkered down.  In two weeks I procured two final drafts and one “really good” first draft of a dissertation proposal which was scheduled for January 21st.  After a good but reality-inducing meeting with my dissertation director (who is new and who replaced my old one that announced he was leaving the university in July), we decided–upon the advice of other faculty–that moving the defense back wouldn’t have that much effect on the fellowship application…thus, the defense was pushed back, the application turned in.  And I could finally breathe again.

That was for 3 blissful days.

This afternoon I returned to an e-mail from the evil trolls at the graduate school.  They flatly rejected my fellowship application–that’s right, the one I broke my back working to get in on time.  [THUD]. “What?!? Why?” you might wonder.  Well, because I didn’t have my dissertation proposal done–you remember, the one we postponed on the advice that it wouldn’t be that big a deal.

Awesome.

And so, here’s my reflection today.  It’s surprisingly not gripey–frankly, I knew this would happen and I am not at all surprised by the bad advice, the incredibly rude e-mail I got informing me of this decision (which also told me I could come and pick up my application at the graduate school to get it off their hands…well, thanks Graduate School…you guys are great), or the fact that I’m now on my own again to figure out how to keep living.  No, my reflection is on my complete lack of panic.

If this graduate experience has taught me one life skill worth talking about (and on days like today I feel this might be the only one), it’s the complete control of my knee jerk panic.  I have no doubt this will work out.  I have no idea how.  I don’t even know where to begin.  But this is the 6th year in a row I face this situation in February.  And miraculously, something works out.  And so, I just think it will.  That could mean it won’t…but I don’t think that.  I don’t know if the options I think I have will end up being the saving grace.  I suspect something else will pop up.  It just will.

And after this degree is firmly in my little paws, I’ll reflect on the degree to which the universe is telling me to get the hell out of sociology.  It’s becoming hard to deny.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me six times–something is just not right here.

But that reflection will have to wait for awhile.  For now, Mrs. Katie’s gotta go get a job.

I was talking with Monica a couple weeks ago…complaining, actually…complaining is what I was doing.  Once again, I found myself in the same exact rut that I always find myself in when I’m at personal perigee (I know, I’m trying out a new word), wondering why I’m there again.  Monica has been invaluable in diagnosing these low moments not as random, linear occurrences but as cyclical points…thus, once I get over one, it’s likely to come back around–and it sure always does.

So this time, I went ahead and gave myself a new little challenge (mind you, now, this was weeks ago).  Instead of just grabbing hold and weathering the storm as usual, my challenge to myself was to not get complacent, a stage that always results in such low tides.  In order to do this, I promised myself that every time I caught myself at a proverbial “fork in the road,” I would –as the cliche dictates–take “the road less taken.”  That is, I wouldn’t do what I was most comfortable doing; I would accept the challenge in hopes that it would not result in the usual “comfort-driven disasters” that have been piling up.

I’ll be honest…this logic is not bad.  It’s not easy, but it’s also not wrong.  I’ve found myself in several situations recently when I was at such a fork and chose the challenging route…it returned the gain I was hoping for…it was uncharted territory, that’s for sure.

But here’s the little catch I find interesting: it’s not always the hardest choice I’m making.  It’s the one that’s most uncomfortable.  So, for instance,  I found myself sitting in front of the computer, ready to write an e-mail that I was sure would “fix” the problem.  Well, this is a typical scenario in which I end up tortured.  So, I sat and deliberated for a good 10 minutes.  I even went so far as to write a draft…twice. Each time I went to send I said to myself, “Send it if you think this’ll really change anything.”  Each time, I knew it wouldn’t and I junked the draft.  It wasn’t easy…but it wasn’t the hardest choice either…that actually might have been turning off the computer and blocking the whole thing out.   It was the one that really left me squirmy…because it made me think about what I was really doing.  And I saw it.  And I didn’t do it.  And it didn’t kill me. And in fact, I think it paid off.  I think.

Another example: I was beside myself with anxiety on Tuesday–school-related.  My usual choices are 1) block out the anxiety and pretend it’s not there or 2) wallow in the anxiety.  The last thing I wanted to do was think about the anxiety…so I thought about it…I searched for the cause and realized it wasn’t stress but not knowing…anything.  So much was up in the air.  So Wednesday I woke up with one goal: “Get things settled.”  And I did.  I made phone calls (which I hate), I made office visits (also uncomfortable), I asked for firm, specific feedback on questions I needed answers to…and by god if I didn’t brace myself for the apocalypse every time a question came out of my mouth.  But I got answers.  And now I know.

The key to this game is vigilance, I think.  And to tread boldly directly into my fears, which are the essence of all of my discomfort.  If I sense I’m holding back because of a trust issue, I challenge myself to trust.  If I’m running away from a confrontation, I confront.  If I duck a hug, I hug back (that one’s for Meghan).  I think the only way to get out of a cycle is to turn around on it and look it face-to-face.

What I’m finding is that a little discomfort goes a long way.

Wow.  Two weeks since the last post.  A lot’s been going on recently.  Andras left Chicago, I kicked out my dissertation proposal (yes, out of order…I’m not done with special fields yet), choir’s up and running, and today in Chicago, fall arrived.  Actually, with howling winds and a dramatic drop in temperature, it rampaged in.  And away we go.  Tomorrow will be Thanksgiving and I’ll wonder where the fall went.

But in all of this flurry of things, I’ve been looking for solace in the steadiness, or maybe steadfastness, of some things that never seem to change.  Nothing is ever static, obviously, unless it’s not animate.  But, since I’ve been fairly drama-free lately (and I have no problem with that), I’ve been able to stand as the outsider and look in to other’s life issues…and begin to see that they’re cyclical.  We’re happy then we’re sad.  We love and then we don’t…and then we do again.  We’re excited and then depressed. And when we think we’ve had enough of something, either good or bad, that something changes…but in predictable ways.  I’ve been re-fascinated by the cyclical ways in which we work even when we know it and we know what’s coming.  We are so predictable and yet never really seem to learn or to let go.

Yesterday I was at the Alpha Sigma Nu induction…finally, the Jesuits thought I was honorable enough to pay them $75 to wear a medallion at graduation…what can I say…it was a vendetta from my Marquette days.  Anyway, the speaker reminded me of a quote from one of the Jesuit martyrs that I think is interesting.  He said:

We are not human beings looking for a spiritual experience.  We are spiritual beings embedded in a human experience.

For some reason, it really spoke to me yesterday, especially in the light of all of these cycles I’ve been watching: some of self-destruction, some of loss, some of finding joy, some searching for love.  I think de Chardin is right.  The spiritual side of us, that which cannot be seen by observing us in our physical presence, is why we do what we do.  If it were all rational and logical, we’d never choose to repeat some of the things we do.

So I guess it’s funny that in all of these changes I see happening so rapidly, that it’s really just a coming around the mountain again.  In fact, I’ve probably written about this very thing already…several times.

We never really change.  We are the steady in a context that moves around us and carries us with it.  We respond. But do we change?

I really hate to be that chipper, cheerful, “Look at the sunny side of life,” kinda girl.  In fact, it makes me want to flog myself for it. I’m much funnier when I’m wry and cynical.  But amazing things have been happening to me recently and I’m not sure why.  I suppose the smarter side of myself says, “Katie…what the hell? Why are you questioning it?”  But, you know, I like to live on the wild and stupid side.  So let’s dig in…

The goodness, I’m finding, is in the universal return.  Like Mars in retrograde, stuff keeps coming back to me at the right time, in the right place.  I’m making myself sick with my own giddyness about it.  “Like what?” you say, “Katie. What is mystically on the return?”

Like:

1. Chez and Patrick with whom I now share an office.  Previously I thought that would be a productive space.  Today, Patrick and I proved that it probably won’t be…academically speaking…but it was great.  My return to the sociology department is the return I was looking for.  Weird.  Couldn’t have seen that coming.

2. Katie and Andy visited on Tuesday.  For Katie, it was a return to Chicago. It was glorious.  For Andy, it was not a return, but he didn’t seem to have a horrible time, so maybe someday he will return.  Either way, though, it was wonderful.  I haven’t had that much fun in a long time…with adults who appreciate Harry Potter like I do.

3. Friday we returned to Book Club.  Another fantastic time.

4. A little bit of my zest for sociology has returned.  It feels right again when for a long time it did not.

5. I returned about 79423874 library books last week.  Literally a weight off my shoulders.  Also means…I read them.  Another weight off my shoulders.

6. Fall is returning.  This past week I literally curled up under my down blanket, had a beer (the RETURN of Goose Island Harvest Ale), and watched football.

I could go on but I’m getting nauseous.  Bottom line, the returns are so celebratory because it means I’ve been given a reprieve from waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting.  I guess I want to ask why…what changed?  Was it me? Or the Universe?  And how do I keep this table turned in my direction?

But, you know…questions are stupid right now.  I’m just going to go sleep while I can because with returns, here’s the thing: everything returns.  Even waiting.

I’ve been going on autopilot the last couple days.  My energy is low, low, low.  I’ve been stressed out to the point that it should be called, “stressed in” (in that much like backdraft, the lack of oxygen in a burning room will first suck everything into it and then blow it to smithereens).  It’s a phase…I think the natural valley after a month of high-energy “I’m moving and it’s summer and I got Active for the Wii.”  But it’s these times when I think some of the greatest things can happen because, for whatever reason, I’ve just had to let go of my strangle-hold on everything…and have found wonders on the other side of over-management.

For instance:

1. I sang in a concert last Sunday that turned out to be one of the greatest moments of my life.

2. I realized I like the world a lot better without my IPod.

3. The Madonna della Strada Chapel in the evenings is a beautiful place to be.

4. I’m much more capable and interested in my culture special field than I previously thought.

5. A friend of mine from years gone by appeared out of nowhere and apparently is now living in Evanston.

6. House guests can make life a little more worthwhile if even for a short time.

7. Transitions don’t have to be horribly painful.

8. Everything in it’s time.

I reflect on this all the time.  For some reason, the lesson of letting go takes time to sink in.  I’ve never trusted it.  And I think that’s precisely the problem.  I’m learning…slowly.

Well, it was bound to come out eventually.  I go to church.  A lot.  It’s kind of funny how it happens.  I’m not naturally inclined to go as often as I do but because of my involvement in church music, I end up sitting through a lot of masses.  How many?  For the past three weekends I’ve been to no less than 4 masses per weekend. This situation is completely typical for professional musicians who earn their livelihood singing or playing or directing or…whatever.  (When I mentioned it’s been a lot of Church to Steve, the director at Loyola, he was like, “Yeah…I’ve been doing this every Saturday since I was 14.”  When I said the same the to Paul at Mt. Carmel his response was basically “Pfffff.”  He’s been doing this every weekend for…well, a long time.)

And in all of these masses what I’ve realized is I’m listening to horrific homilies.  That doesn’t mean every one.  Some are way better (thank you Jesuits in general) than others (I’ll point no fingers but I have a couple folks specifically in mind).  But in general, the preaching that I’ve heard in the Catholic church around here is piss poor.  I’m actually educated in Theology to a point and over-educated in philosophy and sociology…and I’ll tell you, the flock is being misled by the misinterpretation and mis-appropriation of gospel messages.  Frankly, I’m starting to find it disgusting.

It’s hard to choke down homilies that are clearly used for political or personal gain while watching everyone in the congregation doing the polite “the priest is talking” nod.  I can’t stand the choice to abjectly ignore the “social gospel” (sorry people, but Jesus was the first socialist) in favor of pushing asinine institutional regulations without any nod toward critical thinking or application in one’s life. (Does wearing shorts to church really mean your eternal soul is in question?  If it does, I’m coming to realize I’ve been barking up the wrong tree for a long time.)  There’s a difference between preaching and pontificating.  We’re getting too much of the latter confused for the former.

Of course, there’s a clear solution to this problem.  All of these frantic homilies (if they’ve been thought about for more than 12 seconds or not stolen off of  “homilies.com”), flush with pleading and prodding about tithing (Catholics are particularly good at hiding this notion around the phrase “put it in the collection basket”…) and literal re-investment in the church (like, the money kind) come from men who needed the power the Church could promise them in this role.  And now that the institution in this country is seriously changing, laity are treating it differently, and becoming very savvy at reading the signs of the times themselves (which was once the purview of church), the power is dwindling.  And these insecure men parading around with their fake power are starting to get desperate. (This isn’t about gender slander…if women could be priests, women would be doing this too…actually probably more vindictively).

The solution to the preaching problem is finding people outside of the institutional structure who are still invested in the message of the gospel and not as a business.  Nuns (technically religious sisters) are writing up a storm and, whether I agree or disagree with their points, they’re pastoral.  They have Jesus’ words and intentions at heart.  They understand figurative imagery and language and have imaginations that expand the bounds of the possibilities.  A lot of men’s religious orders are doing this too.

I wish I could find this stuff at church.  I’ll still go because of the music and the community.  But I think it’s interesting that to find what I need spiritually…I’ve turned to the blogosphere.  And I’m one of the very faithful.

I’m not sure whether I should be surprised or not.  I’m fairly convinced, though, that my guilt response is deeply embedded.  Thank god for the guilt.  It reminds me of who I am.

School work has become not a little thrill.  In fact, to suggest the word “thrill” should go anywhere near this PhD process seems sacreligious.  But nonetheless, the time has come that I just start hunkering down and do this thing.

Thus, I have.  But not without reward.  Tonight as I sat down, notes in front of me, trying to drum up a train of thought about how idiocultures are developed within existing social structures and the effects of said structures (I KNOW…this is my life, people.  Not pretty), I promised myself that after a couple hours (literally 2), I would allow myself the luxury of a treat: fix my blog.  Because, really, the fact that the pictures were not mine was seriously bothersome, especially because I kept getting a lot of compliments on them and, well, that was making me jealous.

There begins my sojourn into the fun world of CSS.  Two hours later, I emerge triumphant and I feel like a million bucks. Veni, Vidi, Vici. (That’s Latin for “Take THAT you sucka pictures.” Just to recap in case you haven’t been following: I managed to get two pictures up in two hours.  And I couldn’t be happier.  In fact, I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that the Sunset at the Arno adorns my homepage.

In the midst of this compulsive panic, though, I did pause to reflect.  This may sound ridiculous but: I think we don’t celebrate enough.  Like, really expend energy to pat ourselves (or others) on the back for jobs well done.  We get judgey (PhD word, guys, keep up) about what constitutes a “success” and we’ve driven that standard so high that we really spend a huge amount of time chasing things but rarely taking stock in what makes us happy and what we’ve accomplished in getting there.

Am I a big fat nerd because I’m totally thrilled that I “won” the battle? Yes.  Unequivocally, yes.  But I’m willing to accept that for this feeling of a little weight off my shoulders and a sense that I mulled through something a figured it out.  And yay for me.

Enjoy the sunset.  I know I will.

P.S.–In case you were wondering…those OUT OF CONTROL enormo TAGS are next on the list.  That’s just ridiculous…

UPDATE: Tags fixed…for now.

One of the biggest struggles for me this summer has been contending with the notion of delayed gratification, satisfaction, relief, any other kind of “good” feeling you can think of.  This has plagued me in random facets of my life for awhile but never all at once.  This PhD is the ultimate in delay…accomplishment always lies somewhere in the not-too-distant future.  But it also seems to be trickily elusive; like the carrot tied to the horse’s head that dangles in front of it’s nose, just always out of reach, the end seems to move farther away proportionate to any kind of strides I make to get there.  This PhD is really about tricking the carrot.

For this past year, the delay was waiting to move from Crummy, Dark, Weird Apartment #2 into a place that I knew would work as a true, comfortable home base, a facet of life I’ve been without for 4 years really.  A lot of energy was spent actively waiting for that to come down.  Now that the wait is over, the relief is almost unimaginable.  But it was intense in the month of June, which happened to coincide with several of my friends heading out of reach, some permanently and some “just for the time being.”  The delay with the friends was (and still is) that my everyday life qualitatively changed.  I had to temporarily imagine my life working differently and unexpectedly and in ways completely out of my control if I still wanted them to be a part of it. It felt uncomfortable and tenuous.

I guess there’s a lot of ways to approach this.  Some might tell me I needed to adjust my mind-set: “Why wait for others when you can take the reins yourself, ” they’d say.  My response to those is that when you take the reins there, you’d better be prepared for loneliness because you’ll be the only one present to you.  Other people just become part of the decoration of your life; people in picture frames on your walls.  My question is why they’re not sitting on your couch.  Others might say that I need to loosen my grip a little.  This is probably true to some degree, but do I really want to allow “slack” with people who possess the power to turn my world?  Do I become, then, the “slacker”? I’m not comfortable with that, either.

As this month is winding down and headed back toward some kind of normalcy, with people back where they “should” be and life snapping to some kind of new but comfortable shape, I’m realizing that the lessons of delay that I take away from this June and others like it reveal themselves immediately. I’ve learned that a little missing, a little wanting is good; too much is toxic and not enough is apathetic.  Time always passes.  But forever wanting can wreck you in a very unobtrusive, quiet way; a mantle of that kind of unique discomfort can really weigh heavily.

So, I guess my lesson of delay is really this: The quality of the days in which you get what you’ve been wanting will be determined by the quality of the days you’ve spent without having.

Appreciation will usually be the end result if we’ve played it right.  But that’s my lesson.  You may have to find your own.