My counselor says, “no….this is not fortune…it’s you finding your path.”  Normally I’d agree.  I love looking for my path and then talking about it in that very Tao-informed way.  But I’m not sure I can take any credit in looking or finding anything.  My life has changed because, and I completely mean this, the universe asserted itself and demanded that I respond.  And I responded…yes in a thoughtful way.  Yes in a responsible way.  But not because I wanted to…because I had to.  And lo and behold…I don’t know if the choice was “right”…but almost literally everything has changed.

Maybe this is a perspective thing: everything changed because some fundamentals shifted in this choice.  I now feel as though I can support myself and my near future is more stable.  Helpful, definitely helpful.  I now feel I have more power to govern some of the more toxic relationships in my life…I have new found weight to shift that I didn’t have before.  Also, very helpful.  I don’t hate what I’m doing…this is very good.  Never good to use “hate” as a regular descriptor in your day. But the effects of all of this seem exponential…If I’m a tree, even the tiniest little twigs are gathering in a new-found sense of life. It’s like I’m breathing again…after six years of not.

And here’s the crux, I suppose…I didn’t really have to do anything but make a choice…a choice which confronted me and not the other way around.  I just had to respond.  It is fortune, I think.  That mysterious hand that reaches in and intervenes when you, yourself, are unable.  It’s the answer to a prayer or the acknowledgement of a desperate cry for help.

Whatever it is…whew…it’s a life saver.

And it hasn’t and I’m glad it hasn’t.  But it’s not where I expected to be…and so I guess I’m mourning a little bit recently over the passing of my old plan.  It’s definitely gone.  Not my dissertation or PhD but the way I thought I’d get there.  It all seemed so clear.  And on a dime it changes; one day I’m sick about filling out more student loan papers and the next I’m fully employed and up nights because of the good, final shock of it all.  Chicago has demanded I stay…and so I will. But that was never my plan.

I remember distinctly having time-oriented conversations with lots of folks when I first got here.  The first time I met Paul he asked me how long I was planning to stay. “5 years,” I said without hesitation.  5 years passed last August.  5 years of Chicago dust, angry wind, and hundreds of thousands of words of sociology under my belt and here I am…where I never could have imagined I’d be.  In some ways wonderfully good.  In other ways disappointed I’m not much further than when I started. Some days I feel liberated, others trapped.

And now I’m sitting here at my desk at “home” with a Blue Cross Blue Shield card in my wallet with this address on it and I’m worried about filling out beneficiary paper work for my term life insurance.

All told, August will be my 7th here.  I’ve lived 12 lifetimes in that time.  My friends have completely turned over 3 times that I can count.  There’s only one person in Chicago who has known me since I moved here. I’ve lived in 4 different places in this city and painted complete apartments twice.  I’ve been heartbroken once by a person and yearly by my program of study.  I’ve had one panic attack and am currently, actively not speaking to two people.  I turned 30 in Chicago.  And I just may turn 40 here. And is this home?  I still don’t know.

But I’m holding out hope.

And that was it…a switch turned off in my head and I knew that was it.  We’d taken it to the limit and couldn’t go any further. “I’ll talk to you soon,” I said and started counting as the days turned to weeks turned to months…turned to 4 years.  I’d felt tremendous guilt during that time…maybe I should call, maybe I should stop in on a trip home.  No.  I just couldn’t bring myself to do it…like something in my DNA told me it was gone.

So at some point over the course of 2009, though I can’t remember when, I did call and left a voicemail saying I was sorry…I knew he couldn’t talk about school anymore…and it hadn’t gotten any less stressful…but that I thought if I let it go now, there would never be knowing whether or not this was my fault for throwing something away.  I didn’t expect to hear back but about six weeks later he called; we talked about movies and tv shows.  I asked about his mom.  He told me I should call when I come home the next time…we’ll grab coffee.  He said he’d call next week. And I was glad when he didn’t.

It seems so counterintuitive to feel that relief…especially in our culture that’s so much like “we’ll work extra hard to save whatever we can.”  But it was just gone.  There was nothing left to save.  A friendship that spanned more crossword puzzles than I could count, thousands of miles through Italy, France, Czech Republic, Akron Ohio…all reduced to an awkward, stilted conversation about watching The Amazing Race for the 8th year in a row. Just let it go with grace.

And I think I have.  But what I know now is the feeling–that gut level weight that hangs right below your ribcage–of it being over…whatever it was.  I now know the moment, to the nanosecond, that what has been working so far just doesn’t take anymore and that sure grip that was once there starts to falter.

That’s one of the worst feelings in the world.

What I’ve especially missed is the log of my own thoughts that writing like this creates.  We don’t think in a vacuum…we don’t have disconnected ideas…they all stem from exactly where we are at a particular time and place.  And as I’m having a go-around yesterday with Kristine about cycles and patterns of relationships and friendships and discussions, I realized I missed my own proof of those very things.  Over time, I can be my own advisor…because something I thought about 17 days ago might have been a problem then but might just be the perfect answer now.

So…I’m back to it…for my own sake.  Of course, things are a little different.  In the storm of the last couple months I got a job…like a real one…with a desk and a chair and a coffee station…and I can only wear jeans on Fridays.  And I may have sorta changed my dissertation topic…kinda…okay…really.  And I cut my hair…I might be moving to Illinois for reals (like my license plates and everything)…and I’m an aunt…and a godmother…to two different kids.  Cool.  And I’m not thinking about moving to a different apartment…in fact, I’m painting the dining room and thinking about getting a dining room table.  And opera is my new hobby. And I have business cards now.  And I almost started asking that people call me Kathleen…but then I got freaked out by the formalness of it so I guess I’m Katie for life. And…

With all this newness, I did think about changing the name of the blog.  It comes from a comment friends years ago made about not ever seeing the place I lived…it could be a tent on the beach somewhere and no one would be the wiser. With this new level of stability, maybe a tent isn’t the right place to think about being for good.

And then I remembered I paid for this domain name…so a tent it shall be.  Long live the tent.

I have to wonder how much (if not most) of this is completely me.  Despite my packed calendar…and I’m not joking…literally from sun up to sun down I’m just running, I feel distanced.  I actually want distance.  At my most haggard, I feel like I just want people to leave me alone.  But I know, in my heart of hearts, I don’t.  I just want not to work so hard at making things feel smooth and easy.  I think I need a vacation.

Yesterday was kind of the pinnacle of these feelings.  A friend I like very much and trust implicitly proceeded to have a very challenging conversation–not one that I felt was mutually challenging.  I maybe even felt attacked though I know that wasn’t the intention.  As with most conversations that I walk away from feeling a little tender, I know there was some profound truth in there…the tenderness comes from the fact that I know that he knows more about me than I’m comfortable with…and he knows it intuitively.  This is not information I’ve given; he, being the astute observer he is, sees it.  And now I have heartburn.  I really hate not being able to manage the information I radiate about myself.

But the other part of the tenderness stems directly from this suggestion, however implied or faint, that I’m ambiguous. It’s interesting being me, I’ll admit that right now.  Because at the same time one friend tacks me to the wall for apparently making no life choices and no decisions, from the other side I have people critiquing me for making statements that are too large, to aggressive, too loud.  To them, I’m intimidatingly strong–either willed or stated.  I think these are opposites.  Wishy-washy and intimidating–how does one actually achieve both?

The problem is I’m down with neither.  Neither one of these ideas fits me.  I think if you know me, you know I’m not ambiguous.  Is it hard to know me…yes…and I think that’s a problem for people.  I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve (my sleeves, honestly, aren’t big enough…I’m very sensitive…every square inch of sleeve would be occupied) and I trust very few.  I think, also, if you know me you know I’m not intimidating.  I am loud.  I’m tall.  Okay, I’m a big presence.  But it’s not my fault people automatically assume that’s some kind of power I wield because at the end of the day I’m more likely to listen to you and what you have to say and consider that at the same time that I consider who you are and why this might be important to you.  How can this possibly EVER be considered intimidating?  Because I have a utile mind, I’m intimidating…or because I don’t exude warm, fuzzy, cuddliness every time someone does something they want recognized?

I guess most bothersome about the whole discussion was the implied notion that I’m running away from something…myself, what I want, whatever, I don’t know.  I am not running.  I’m standing here examining my life more rigorously than most people I know.  I am flying in the face of my fears…it feels like I’m walking through fire here to make the changes I need to make in order to get what I want.  And I’m still compassionate when it comes to you.  So I don’t want to hear that I’m running or not working hard enough or not making the tough life decisions.

If I appear ambiguous to you it’s because you’re not working hard enough to know me.

Thus, I’m going to blame a couple of my own lazinesses directly on the swoon.  This is why life in the deep South in general feels so leisurely–the heat actually causes (maybe forces) life to slow down.  Also, it drives you to drink and it’s well established that alcohol slows everything down too.  So why haven’t I written here in awhile?  Clearly…it’s the swoon.

But I’ll also say this (whether or not the swoon is to blame here I don’t know): This time of the year becomes intensely boring for me.  Summer scheules annoy the hell out of me; they’re too flabby.  To be clear, my schedule is always flabby, so I rely on the schedules of others to be my “schedule corset” if you will.  Now, we’re all a little flabby around the schedule and it’s bordering on what I may describe as just “stupid.”  No purpose, no momentum, no desire for either purpose or momentum.  Ew.  I’ve had very little to think about, write about, or describe in what seems like weeks.  I saw a lot of people last week, had a lot of conversations, was out and about.  Did any of them really make a mark on anything? No.  It was oddly non-descript “business as usual.”  I felt like I missed a lot of opportunities last week and yet I never stopped moving.  Maybe ultimately I was uncomfortable with all of that and decided not to reflect on it…I don’t know.

This also might be the calm after the storm.  The past couple months have been intensely taxing; I can’t believe I’m gonna say it but I’ve never been that stressed out in my whole life (and I’m always stressed out).  No, no.  This was stress at all new levels.  Now a lot of that has dissipated whether for good or for bad.  I’m wondering if I just don’t know how to deal with non-stress.  That would be sad…and also a real paradox.  Maybe I’ve overdosed on yoga.

All I’m saying is this: a little snap in the air, a cool fresh breeze…and I think life happens a little more freely.  Slogging through this wet blanket…makes me just want to give up on the day and watch tv.  Which is narcotizing, yes…but leaves very little to actually think about.

[Sigh.]

[Sweat.]

[Sigh again.]

This life is a challenge.

I remember when I was teaching at Walsh and worried that if I stayed there the next 25 years would look exactly the same and I wasn’t happy with that. So instead I chose a life that requires every February – May to be a scramble to figure out how I’m going to support myself, keep inspired, stay healthy, not go totally nuts with worry. And now I find myself looking back at the Walsh days with a fond nostalgia toward its consistency.  Everything there is pretty much the same.

So, this, maybe is the lesson I’m supposed to learn in graduate school, the one I didn’t know I was paying for: that life goes on, opportunities come and go, people come and go, and my life and that which ultimately stays important is where I am.

These last months have been hard, presenting me with challenges I’ve never even thought about facing…mostly involving taking action on plans of which I cannot envision an exact, finite end point.  It’s truly been about making moves with the resources I have now and hoping that it works out in the end and at the same time learning how to adjust expectations and re-frame the way things work out when they’re beyond my control.  I’m learning one step at a time to “go with the flow.” It’s been backbreaking some days.

But I should learn to be careful what to wish for.  For the last several years I’ve bemoaned a lack of constancy in my life.  I’ve hoped for some kind of foundation to ground me.  I think I’ve found my constant and it’s name is change.

It’s not the constant I expected.  But it sure is always there.

Because of this, I’ve noticed a kind of latent effect.  I wonder if this happens to everyone: when I’m in the midst of intense writing (generally accompanied by intense thinking), a host of mental abilities become a lot sharper.  I can do mental math (which I usually cannot), I solve more crossword puzzles faster (and I mean markedly faster), I can read like lightning.  But my senses also get sharper.  I usually have really good hearing (inexplicably) but last night I was awakened from a dead sleep by the water gurgling through the radiator in the kitchen. The beeping of the gate on the parking lot across from my apartment is about to drive me to drink (wait….).  And I pity whoever around me is singing even the slightest bit off key…I’m telling you now, I can hear it.

Beyond this, I get SUPER critical (as if I wasn’t a good degree of this already) but in a weird, detached neutral way.  I’ll watch some weird, schlocky reality offering on BRAVO like Real Housewives and make editorial comments like, “Now I would have panned away from Theresa at that moment to capture the angst on Danielle’s face.” What? Who cares #1 what you think and #2 about Danielle’s angst? And who uses the word angst in everyday life anyway?  I don’t think I’m judging…I’m just analyzing everything.  It’s a runaway train. Over my vacation, I took great joy in watching The West Wing mostly because they were talking at a speed that I could understand. The Gilmore Girls is also good for this.  It doesn’t really matter to me what they’re saying.  I’m just comforted by the fact that someone is talking at pace I know.

All of this I’d call “hyper-awareness” and I’d like very much for it to go away.  This crazy internal monologue that I have perpetually running in my head sounds like it’s playing on a mini-tape recorder on fast-forward.  It’s my voice “Alvin and the Chipmunk” style.  I wish it were energy.  That’s more helpful.  This is like mania or something.

At the same time, I’m fascinated by it.  It’s not always around; in my non-writing periods I am virtually a slug in Gap jeans.  I can be blissfully oblivious to lots of stuff.  In an interesting correlation, I’m also a lot happier during those times. I like slugs.  They’re slow. And quiet.

I think the predicament is interesting.  I always wondered what it would feel like to think and write at this level.  I know now.  I’d like to give it back.

As I was driving home to the Cleve on Monday, I realized that I have been miserable as long as I can remember, almost to the point that I can’t remember what it feels like to be happy.  But my reasonable, logic-driven head remembers that certain things do make me happy…at least for awhile.  And funny thing…writing on this tiny little postage-stamp of the Interwebs is one of ‘em.  I’m not sure how to recapture the voice I had when I started this thing…a lot has changed…and actually, sometimes I long for the stupid Vox blog on which it all started (technically it’s still there but I hate Vox and this thing is paid for for up to three years).  So, I’m just gonna re-start and see what happens.  I refuse to let Facebook train me to speak to “my public” (all two of them and dwindling) in 140 characters.  I’m going to have a say and it might be a long(er) one.  Yeah.  But, so as not to fall into a crevasse of negativity, here’s a list of things I promise (myself) not to do:

1. No whining or complaining unless I think it’s actually funny and/or wittily biting sarcasm.

2. No blowing sunshine up anyone’s nose.  This post inevitably comes after a particularly whiny, wheezy one (See #1).

3. No “deep insights into the world” unless I provide the context and do not preach.  I hate preachy blogs.

4. No over-sentimentalism or over personal-reflection.  Can you believe I write a journal too?  That’s where that stuff goes.

5.  No changing names to protect the innocent.  I have real friends and now their friendship with me is contingent on being mentioned by their real first names (no last names…seriously, that’s just not right) for their greatnesses.  I will only celebrate friend greatness.  If you piss me off, I’ll wait to we work it out and then talk about it vaguely and in the past tense.

6. No overly dedicated school talk.  School does nothing but make me whiny, wheezy, and agitated.  (See #1 again).

I think that’s a good start.  And yes, I’m going to be that person that posts the updates on Facebook because…no one checks this thing regularly.  So deal.  Those updates just let you know there’s something new in the pot…it doesn’t mean you have to eat it.

Let the blogging begin.  Again. For the first time. For the last time.

Anyway, because of this, I’ve wanted nothing but to go outside of my apartment and, thus, have had to keep myself busy in other ways.  All hasn’t been lost though.  Despite my bondage, I’ve had a good day here including (but not limited to):

1. Forcing Andras to bring me his “good-bye” lunch instead of going out for it.

2. Finishing a UW project exceedingly fast…when all I wanted to do was walk away from it.

3. Feasting on Trader Joe’s food almost constantly.

4. I’m going to work out here in 5 minutes or so.  Usually, this urge wouldn’t strike until at least 7:30pm.

5. Cleaning the kitchen.  I know.

6. The possibilities feel endless at this point.

I always feel some kind of relief when this person shows up and gives me the go-ahead to assume freedom.  But until then, I suppose there are worse things I have to endure.

Like getting a PhD…but I’ll worry about that later.