My Tent on The Beach

I write a lot about cycles. And if I don’t actually write that much about them, I think about them all the time. It seems I can’t go for too long without reoccurrences: same or alike people, same or alike situations, same conversations, same insights. There have been long periods of time during which I think I’m actually just standing still and watching scenes from some determined kind of ride rush past me. It all seems so familiar. De ja vu.

But I’ll say this: reconnecting never feels wrong. That’s not to say that I haven’t seen someone for the first time in a long time and thought, “nope, this was over a long time ago.” Or similarly, that every time I see someone I haven’t for awhile that I’m happy about it. In fact, to the contrary. I was just thinking this morning of all of the people I’m glad about exiting my life. Some we users and just completely sucked me dry. Others were confused and sought answers elsewhere. Still others were like a little capsule of time…right at that very moment but not for a second longer. For those, there was no actual, discernible connection. Sure, at the time it felt like there was. But as the mist of friendship or blush of love faded, there was nothing actually there even from the beginning. For those folks, reconnecting isn’t even possible; there was nothing thee in the first place.

No, reconnection is something that happens only for the few who present that ever-elusive chance to connect in the first place. It’s not a physical thing or a mental quirk. I do think connection is something of the soul, something mystical which cannot be overly examined or characterized…it’s merely felt and known somewhere in the deep recesses of ourselves. On some level, we just are innately aware of those to whom we connect. And that is something timeless and maybe even forever, maybe even beyond what we understand forever to be.

The good news, I think, is that connection doesn’t have to be grandiose. It can be tapped into over beer (only minor pun intended) or can actually be conveyed thoroughly in a couple-word text message or a gesture…even a look. I’ve had what I consider the rare pleasure of knowing several people with whom i converse best entirely nonverbally and those people are treasures; the connection is so obvious, words are not required…and in this age of seemingly endless words…I do find that a gift.

I have been judged by many of the course of my lifetime for my choices: in friends, in relationships, in grudges and sympathies. Many of my “connections” fall into those categories. I can’t explain my attraction to this people. Maybe they stand out above normality. Maybe the circumstance in which I’ve stumbled upon them renders a relationship that just looks foreign to others. Maybe it doesn’t make easy sense to people outside the know. And for these, and others I’m sure, I’ve been met with skepticism and raised eyebrows. I’ve been pitied because of my weird coterie of seemingly random friends. And loves. And the fact that those categories aren’t always mutually exclusive.

The actual pity, though, lies with those who judge, I think, because they just don’t know. Connectedness is something completely alien and always will be. Reconnectedness isn’t even an option. That is a true, true shame. In the end I’ve known some fascinating people and I’ve known them well. And that’s all that really matters. And I get to be the judge of that.

The start of school.  There’s nothing like it, although it never feels real until 1) after Labor Day and 2) after the weather starts to act like fall.  But regardless, I’m teaching 5 days a week this Fall (a tremendous increase from what I was doing last year) and I’m just really happy about it.  And relieved, actually.

The longer I’m in grad school (and it’s getting very long…this is the start of my 6th year) the more real the toll of working solitarily starts to take hold.  Writing is an isolating process–alone with my ideas all day–and I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon when it comes to writing–it actually makes me a fragile person.  I’ m moody and emotional.  I’m restless and discontented.  It’s taken a long time for me to realize that this isn’t something I’ve become totally; it’s only who I am when the overwhelming weight of this “dissertation” takes hold.  And as it turns out, teaching is the natural counterpoint to writing.  Through it I personally find a great balance.  It is therapeutic…and not in a needy sort of way.  It’s the space I need to synthesize things.  I think it’s the best of both worlds when both student and teacher can benefit from the experience.  Things “get done.”

I also happen to be teaching at 8am on MWF, so that means a lot of early mornings are in my future.  There was a time I would be less than thrilled with that proposition…and I am epically tired today (the 2nd day of school) because I still can’t make myself fall asleep in enough time to get in the recommended 8, but eventually exhaustion will take over and I’ll get to where I need to be.  But the thing with mornings is that it’s really the best of myself.  Though I always thought I was a night person, I think I’m actually a very, very early person.  It’s the time when the weight and worries of the day haven’t formed yet…I’m very clear (surprisingly clear) at that hour.  It’s been a nice discovery.

So far, I’m into both my classes at two different schools and I can’t deny the fact that this turn of events…going back into the classroom…has been nothing short of a godsend.  This will be exactly how this dissertation gets done.  I’m committing it to writing so that every time I get coerced to think about another way I can return here and remember this.  For good.

I’m a teacher.  And with students is where I need to be.

I haven’t ranted in awhile.  I think it’s because I’ve been trying to get my Zen on…which has been working splendidly and I live in fear of jinxing it, so I try to curb the rants.  But I just cannot let this one pass by and so I must, I must, I must increase my…honesty with a certain group of people of the world.

Far be it from me to decry another’s blogging efforts.  But I think we have to be realistic. Blogs are inherently self-serving; you’re either writing it for yourself to read or others to read.  But when it becomes understood as a service to others…that’s where I’m gonna go ahead and call 2 minutes for self-righteousness.  And you know who’s totally the worst offenders of this right now?  Blogger moms.

Now before your hackles get all up in my grill, just take a deep breath and listen.  I’m not talking about all blogger moms.  Frankly, I don’t read moms’ blogs in general because, well, why?  I have to deal with your annoying kids in reality…why would I want to read about them too?  I’m talking about moms who appoint themselves the mistresses of all things healthy, lively, fun, and energetic and then try to pass this off as a service to the world.  My issue begins with one blog in particular (which…no, I will not name…I do have some shame) but in glancing through her blogroll, I know there are others just like her hawking their special brand of “clean and healthy family living the right way.” My ultimate favorite part about all of these is their, “well, this is how I do it, but it may not be right for you” tone; “I choose to make organic whole wheat carrot and cucumber muffins from scratch every morning to feed my kids because I know they’re worth it.  But if you have to go with pop-tarts and Tang, I get it; we moms work hard.”  Oh my dear god. I actually started laughing at the last article I read on her blog which broke down why getting vegetable-fed beef is better for you.  The information was impressively good and very useful…and then came the discussion of how to go about obtaining such a thing for your family.  I’ll just summarize the whole thing by saying “the internet” and “your local farmer” were the strongest options.  I my childless self live in an urban center.  It goes without saying, I’m not real familiar with my “local farmer.”  This leaves me with…the internet…to buy beef.  What’s going on here.

My issues with discussions that happen in this particular manner stem from two points.  First, they REEK of privilege.  The right way becomes the way in which only families who have enough money–and moms who have enough time–can actually live.  I found in thoroughly systematic but completely NOT surprising that there were never any adaptations made (like in the composting article) for 1) apartment dwellers, 2) urban dwellers, 3) and people who aren’t highly literate (composting is not an activity for imbeciles…you gotta know about living stuff and shit like that).  Recipes offered…not easy and often involving ingredients you can’t pick up at the corner big box grocery store (which, sad to say, is where most of us HAVE to shop for one reason or another).  Let’s not even talk about the fact of needing special appliances.  One article on juicing (suggested as the better way to get all 8 servings of fruit per day) didn’t mention that…you need a juicer.  And that corn-fed beef you buy from the “local farmer”…right…they don’t sell that in 1lb increments…you need a whole freezer to store the side of beef you’ll end up buying (and a minivan to haul it).  The article on switching from white bread to wheat bread you bake yourself (from flour you mill yourself) provided a recipe that required a bread machine.  If you don’t have one of those, I hope you have about 3 hours to devote to the process.

Aside from what I’ll call these plausibility issues, there is that kind of normative decision made for us all (and by us I mean “women” because the men are out bringing home the bacon and running 10Ks) in each of these articles.  They do, in fact, give us a nice, neat, pin-tucked set of values to use in judging ourselves successful and valuable…there’s always kids involved and they are usually picky eaters who have to be contended with; the word “organic” comes up more often than not; there’s always “noshing” involved; bright colors and attitudes to match seem de rigeur; eliminating dairy are very important; networking and self promotion seem oddly written into the underside of the surface of everything; let’s not even talk about the “greening” of everything–apparently moms are the new Al Gore; there’s a lot of baking involved and “fast food” are 4 letter words to the power of 2; “health” is their god.  And they’re all “consultants” of something (I have to believe they’ve been promoted from within…their own happy company of one).

Bottom line: this is the production of “mom” and “family” that rivals that of Betty Crocker–this one today is just greener and more organic and even more impossible for most women (and dads and families) to achieve.  Sadly, the moms I want to know about don’t have time to blog or probably the money to explore Whole Foods (which my friend rightly refers to as “Whole Paycheck”).  And my guess is they don’t know their “local farmer” either.  And because of that, they’ll never be successful…because the “Consultant Moms” say so.  It’s actually a little socially gross…like your colon is metabolically gross after you’ve eaten grain-fed beef all your life (according to the excellent article noted above).

If they really wanted to provide a useful service to the world, Consultant Moms should take 30 minutes to sit in their Lulemon yoga pants in their perfected half-lotus pose and think about how they’re actually destroying “family” by writing about theirs.  Then just go and live a happy life in whatever form that takes and leave the rest of us to do what we’re doing…no services–or self righteousness–required.

But what do I know…I don’t have a husband or kids…so technically I’m not even a woman.