For the Birds

I cannot say if this is true of all doves, or if perhaps it is something particular to the doves that reside in my hometown, but either way, I still find it odd. For unlike other members of the natural world that occasionally find themselves face to hood with an oncoming automobile, the greater dove population of Montrose county will more often than not fly directly at the grill of a muddy F1-50. Other, perhaps more highly developed creatures, like cats and skunks will run and/or waddle like hell when the prospect of fast approaching death looks them squarely in over-pronounced, red eyes. (Indeed I sometimes wonder which of these reactions is more human--or, at least, ought to be more human...Should a person flee when the bright lights of the inevitable shine mercilessly down upon them? Or, like the Colorado dove, should mankind take a hint and learn to steer into the oncoming doom, tail-feather to the wind, having achieved Nirvana through the electric charge from the nearby phone line, fully embracing the splatter that is to come?)

As I said before, I have not really witnessed this kamikaze-like behavior in the doves of say, Seattle or Denver. Nor have I noted such species as the stately Robin, petite Finch, or elusive Lark Bunting acting in a similar manner. Considering that these are all songbirds of one sort or another, one could assume, I suppose, that the local dove population is awash with envy due to its less than attractive plumage or its inability to entertain its neighbors with songs so sweet and melodious as that of the Rockin Robin.

Or, perhaps just as likely, it is not so much the other kids on the playground that drive the dove to demonstrations of dive-bombing, but rather it is the playground itself. For in all honesty, the town in which these seemingly-suicidal doves live and move and have their tragically short being is not the most ideal location, be ye dove or be ye, well, dead. The mountainous/desert climate of this area does not yield an abundance of sustenance in the seed and fruit departments, and even if it did, dove are not exactly territorial when it comes to claiming their slice of the cherry pie. And while I don't profess to be an authority on all things avian, I imagine that the social lives of small town Colorado Columbidae are somewhat similar to those of poodles in the dog world. Sure, in a city like New York or L.A. doves and pigeons, like poodles, have a prescribed roll and a comfortable (if not always respected) place in society. But far from the cathedrals or trash cans or padded purses of metropolitan living it seems that ugly birds--like ugly, puffball dogs--lose their sense of identity and purpose in life in much the same way humans can, and so often do.

Maybe the doves suffer from more than disproportionately small heads (hence the tiny brains.) Maybe years of being picked on for not being brightly colored or gifted singers or particularly sturdy nest-builders finally gets to each dove in its turn and it feels like its only recourse is to wait on that yellow line and pray for a sporty little Subaru to save it from itself.

Or maybe that isn't it at all, and these rats with wings are not to be pitied, but admired.
Perhaps they are the thrill seekers, risk-takers, and Evel Knievel wannabes of the Animalia--Chordata--Aves world, choosing to express what they might lack in intellect and glittering high notes through acts of sheer, ah-hem, pluck. Maybe waiting directly in the path of oncoming vehicles provides these delicate creatures with an adrenaline rush the likes of which humanity can never know. Maybe a panel of Simon Cowell-like Thrush watch from a nearby fence-post, prepared to judge and condemn a failed half-nelson with a twist or praise a spur of the moment triple tail loop. It could be that, like warriors of old, it is only the bravest and most bloodied combatant who gets the girl when the credits roll.

Maybe the sight and smell of millions of insects, fresh caught, filleted and cooking in the summer heat is so appetizing that they simply cannot resist a lure so sweet...like jumping out a plane in the event someone threw a Klondike bar to earth from a hight of 40,000 feet. What we'd all do for love of a few calories, right?

Or, perhaps it is simply that, like the people driving the cars that hit them, these gentle symbols of peace are merely trying to get from point A to point B in this life. Maybe they are trying to promote gentleness and harmony by never raising their voice to anyone, doing no more or less than the universe ever asked of them since time began and they first brought hope to humanity by discovering the source of a truly great martini. Maybe each dove is a martyr--an offering and a prayer given on behalf of mankind as if the dirt road were a temple and the the hood of a Toyota were a holy alter. Perhaps when the end comes, and their large eyes widen all the more in death, Solomon would still declare them beautiful, though they weep for him even as they shatter like clay upon the ground.

Maybe there really is more to a dove than what meets the undercarriage?

Oxford...again?

Last night I had the pleasure of talking with one of the summer interns who works for a church in my hometown. It would have been a wholly unremarkable experience if the subject of Oxford had not come up in conversation. As it turns out, he (and I, in my own little way) studied there around the same time and have since discovered a profound mutual love of the place, the educational opportunities accorded there, and, in a grander view, for European life in general. This discovery, however random, rekindled within me the desire to research those possibilities--however vague or distant they may be--that exist in the realm of my future life in so far as I hope to end up in England.

And yes, it is true that I still have a lot of reading to do, and my existing writing samples are so poor that they make me cry a little whenever I think about them, and then there is the prospect of the almighty dollar (or, in this case, pound. Oh help...) but despite all of these things, I still want to learn. And I suppose that is what really matters. I want to know things and surround myself with sundry folk in an atmosphere of constant consideration and cogitation (GRE word of the day, check.)  


...Now, if only money were no object, I could begin in ernest! Nevertheless I shall continue to wait tables with a smile on my face, ever dreaming of the possibilities that await this (temporarily) detained wanderer.

Of Mind and Heart

About once a week (every week) for the last thirteen months I have drafted (and subsequently deleted) an e-mail to many a former college professor asking for advice on the subject of grad school. Now that I am an alumna rather than a student I feel at once more able to speak candidly with my former profs and yet less able to communicate at all, siting such lame reasons as distance and the desire not to waste their precious time. But the truth is I feel like I need their stamp of approval. It's as if I'm still in Brit Lit 207 and I cannot proceed with my first draft without having my enthymeme formally accepted. The only difference is that the essay in question is my educational future and I find the all important "because" clause--namely, the questionable reason(s) I possess for going to grad school--just as elusive now as ever it was before.

Thus, siting lack of courage and a complete inability to articulate myself effectively and succinctly through e-mail, I appeal to you, dear reader, for advice and whatever else you may like to add. The questions that I wish to put before those far wiser than myself are as follows:

Do you think I should go to grad school at all?
If not, what else do you think I should consider?
If so, why?
Where would you suggest?
Which programs do you think would be the most beneficial (Literature, Creative Writing, etc.)?
Where did you yourself go to grad school?
Was it a predominately positive experience?
Would you recommend an M.A., a PhD, or both?
How do you think graduate education has changed in the years following your years therein?
Do you think it is still worth the cost? (monetary, emotionally, and in terms of long-term commitment)
A lot of programs heavily advertise their staff--do you think professors are the most important factor in a programs value?
What do you believe are the three most important factors in selecting a graduate program?
And finally, how does one find the "diamond in the rough" schools (as, one could argue, Whitworth could be counted)?


I guess what I most want to know is this--where do you think I can find a place to belong in academia again? Whitworth was and is so unique, principally I suppose because of amazing importance places on individuals. Their education, their faith, their welfare. Not only did I receive a wonderful education, but I also felt a sincerity and authenticity among my fellow students as well as the staff. I found my peers to be intelligent, creative, supportive and kind individuals. Our professors too were brilliant in their own right, helpful beyond the call of duty, and extremely approachable. Classes where simulating, discussions broad and invigorating, and the dynamics of it all were positive throughout. It is my ambition to find such an affirmative environment once more.

Because as much as I love small M-town living, I feel the need for intellectual simulation like I feel the summer heat--it is a constant, almost nagging presence, intent upon taunting me until I crack under the pressure. But even more than that, I am in want of emotional connection. I am daily filled with the missing of my fellow English majors, my BISPer, my Pemberley ladies, my commune sisters, my Ivan-hoes, and the epicness of the Whitworth Writing Center. In the short period since my graduation I have realized how rare and remarkable it is that an institution can care so much for its students (and come to that, the students for one another) and still be successful. And while this realization makes me very grateful for my experience as well as hopeful that there are in fact similar institutions elsewhere, I do not know where they are nor how to find them. I would be very grateful for any assistance you might be able to provide that would uncover the mystery of graduate schools of the Mind and Heart variety.

On the Subject of Work and self-worth

As most of you know I am currently working as a waitress. This being the most recent in a string of completely unrelated occupations, all of which also have nothing whatsoever to do with my area of study whilst in college. Be that as it may, I have actually been very lucky with the jobs I've had in my life. I have had the opportunity to work under and alongside some of the most open, intelligent, and genuine people I know; I have learned a variety of skills that I am convinced could never have been acquired in a classroom, and, of course, I have made a little money here and there.

Now, I don't know about you, but for me--and I suspect for most people who live and (are trying to) work these days--I find that my perspective has shifted dramatically from wherever it might have been four or five years ago. When I graduated from high school I gave little thought to the grander idea of my occupational future. And even for the duration of my time in college I spent far more time worrying about one man's opinion of my ability to convey a literary analysis of Shakespeare from mind to  MLA-formatted page than I ever did about such "trivialities" as polishing my resume, practicing interviewing strategies, or considering future career options for myself. 

But is shortsightedness to blame for my current situation? Or it is perhaps a question of ambition? For, in point of fact, that is one virtue I never was very good at harnessing. I told myself that the people on the top of the heap were not the kind of people I wanted to be, and that things like power and prestige bring more trouble than they are worth anyway. And for the most part, I still believe this to be true. But I do wish I had flushed out at least a dash more zeal in the past, if only to get me from this bizarre "point a1" to wherever the hell it is I'm meant to be next, for while I may have ignored the whole "future," "job," "design you life NOW" memo whilst in school, I have but little choice to face it at the moment.

Although, in all fairness, there is very little wrong with my current location, be in geographically, emotionally, or even financially. I suppose it is simply that I am beginning to question things like "value" and "worth" and the elusive idea of "enough." I'll give you an example. Even before I graduated from Whitworth it was becoming clear that jobs were somewhat thin on the ground in almost every sector, and all the more so for students and recent grads with no experience. Thus, in my junior year, I resolved to find a summer job in Spokane, hoping for something a little better than the nothing I knew would be waiting for me back home. I applied for lots of jobs and ended up working for Whitworth's Grounds Department out of sheer luck, a job which I happily returned to the following summer. It was work in the most glorious and honest sense. I was forced to disobey my natural inclination to sleep in, due to early working hours. I spent eight hours a day out of doors, usually digging. I would come home from work dirty, dog-tired, and quite often elated. The execution of tasks and the satisfaction I felt upon their completion made the physical hardship well worth the effort. The knowledge that I had pleased others through the doing made it gratifying. (And driving around listening to music and the constant presence of purple spray paint didn't hurt either.) I guess my point is that, for a time, I felt I had a worth-while, measurable purpose that was manifested through my work. And, as such, I felt that I had earned the compensation I received in the doing. 

From what I've heard and read and seen first hand, it is quite rare indeed to find a situation wherein fulfillment in one's work and satisfaction with one's income are compatible with one another. Just look at virtually any public school teacher in America today. Most are in the business because they love at least some aspect of what they do--let's be honest, who would do it if they didn't?--and yet nearly all work overtime for no additional pay. In my opinion, there is a job that does not produce the desired proportions of gratification to the amount of work put in, nor to the amount of compensation earned. 

And trust me, I know I'm coming at this with rose-tinted glasses, but I still think someone aught to ask the question--Why the HELL do Americans (more so than most other Western nationalities) work themselves to death for longer days, lower median living wages, and some of the shortest vacation periods in the developed working world when in fact,  "only 45 percent of Americans are satisfied with their work" in the first place?! An article published by CBS in January of 2010 stated that, according to the previous year's data, "Roughly 64 percent of workers under 25 say they were unhappy in their jobs." And this coming from the 89 percent who were lucky enough to be employed at the time! 

I just don't get it. If we spend a third of our adult lives working, why is it that a great many work environments are so unpleasant? Am I so very naive and wrong to hope that my future occupation is one that is both personally gratifying and monetarily sufficient? Is it really so very impossible to achieve a true sense of self-worth from one's career and still pay the bills?

Because at the moment I am lacking in both departments. And while it is true that $4.00 an hour is better than nothing at all, and that working does gives me something to do with my day besides surfing the internet, I have come to believe that I am worth more than four dollars an hour. I believe that any job I have in the future should be a place of openness and honesty. The work I do should generate growth and edification. The hours committed and the quality of the craft should be reflected in the pay. Passion and commitment should be acknowledged and rewarded. Coworkers should show respect and courtesy to one another, seeking to build each other up and never to tear down. And, if possible, all work should result in the acquisition of a greater sense of self-worth than that which one had before the doing. Though, I suppose that if I received all of the above from a single occupation I'd have nothing left to strive for--and then where would I be?

Thus, the next step in my personal "I Could Never..." Project is to seek out the next occupation, however elusive, that will increase rather than decrease my levels of self-worth. The hunt is on. 

Random Acts of Kindness

The other day one of my coworkers pulled me aside after we finished our daily check-out and mentioned that I seemed a little down and that if I ever wanted to talk, I shouldn't hesitate to call her. She smiled her ginuine smile at me (not the plastic, "hello my name is Cindy, how may I help you?" smile we use for 6 hours straight) and gave me her phone number. She promised not to judge me. She hugged me.

Now, I'll admit to having felt somewhat invisable of late. My friends are all in far-flung states or countries or continents, dutifully working full-time jobs or feverishly finishing finals or in completely opposite time zones. My family all have their own shtuff a-brewing. (And let me say that none of the above is bad. I am stoked for and inexpressibly proud of all the people in my life who are "out there" living--you ALL ROCK!) But all of the above factors do make it a little challenging to "talk" when I want to--or even when I don't. Cause the thing is, when Cindy randomly and generously reached out to me, I really was fine. I've been fine. I AM fine. But when I do have those dark moment, those hours or days or even weeks when I find myself wondering what the hell I'm doing and why I'm doing it and wondering what I should have done to alter my current curcumstances for the better, I do that thing where I sit in my car and think about who I might call. (More than likely I just end up at home blogging instead. Oye.)

I just feel so disconnected. Which is so far from the truth it's almost laughable. I have e-mail and Skype and facebook and a cell phone and snail mail for Christsake! And yet, with all of that, I look at the state of my relationships with you dear readers and I wonder--what can I do to let you know, as my kind coworker did, that I am HERE. I want to be avalible to you and I want you to know I care.

I guess I don't really have a point...other than that I've been watching to0 many clips from the "it gets better project" and "Vlogbrothers" in quick succession. I feel a restlessness in the form of a desire to help, to make a difference, and yet an equally large sense of inadeqacy and inexperience that seems to add up to "being found wanting."

So I shall do more research until I find a way to serve that seems right and proper to me. And until then I hope I can pay Random Acts of Kindness forward as much and as often as possible. I hope you'll do the same.

Project "I Could Never..."

I don't know about you, but I know for a fact that I can't count the number of times I've said the words "I could never [fill in the blank]." Now, normally, this would not bother me in the least, but recently I have become rather painfully aware of some of my more unattractive deficiencies, one of the most troublesome being that I am very VERY good at stopping myself from doing....well, a lot of things.

For example, my former housemate Kelsey is at this very moment teaching English in Korea. Elizabeth, another former sharer-of-ground-floor-bathroom-ness has uprooted herself for the purpose of planting three years worth of roots in Uganda. My fellow BISPer and Pemberely dweller Sam moved to a completely new city last year to attend Grad school--sight unseen. My favorite Texan does things like running marathons, enrolling in Boot Camp-like fitness programs for the sole purpose of bettering herself, and then, of course, there's the Law School thing. These are things I Could Never Do.

Or could I?

Somehow, (and, in all honesty, I really have no idea how) it came to be that even at the possibility-rich, option-filled, tender young age of I-don't-even-know-how-old I made a crucial decision in my life. I said "I can't." (More than likely the real phrase was "I won't," followed, accompanied, and/or preceded by some waterworks, I have no doubt.) And just like that, the course of my life began to change dramatically with every instance in which I spoke those words. (Okay, maybe not...but go with me here.) Because of course, on some occasions these words absolutely needed to be said (i.e.- Doing long division without a calculator, remembering all the words to "Stairway to Heaven" at the drop of a hat, or running around the dirt track of my elementary school as the same speed as Stevie Wiesner.)

But more often than not, what I really meant to say and did not have the heart or guts or sense of self-worth so to do was, quite simply, "I will not do X." And for me personally, that was usually because I was too scared or embarrassed to take action when passivity and indifference were, at the time, perfectly acceptable alternatives.

And look at everything I missed out on because of it. I never told my high school crush how much I liked him. I never tried out for a play at my school or community theatre or even took an acting class in college because I told myself I had no talent. I stopped writing poetry because I convinced myself that my work wasn't of any real value. I hid in my dorm-room for the vast majority of my time at Whitworth because I was afraid of meeting new people and being rejected and ignored all over again. I never applied to the Grad programs I loved because I am scared to death of the prospect of competitive academia. And I have no one to blame for it but me.


So, (finally,) I have decided to do something about it.

My dear readers, I present to you: Project "I Could Never..."

In reality it is nothing more than a visual reminder and digital incentive for me to challenge the 23 years of assumptions I have made about myself, starting with the goal of crossing off three things this summer that I previously thought I Could Never Do.

The first one will be manifested when I move my curser over the obnoxiously orange button on the bottom of this screen and press the "Publish Post" button. Because, you see, I always thought I Could Never Tell Anyone the things that I regret the most about the way I've lived my life, or the fragile and deeply personal hope I have about changing that.

I freely and heartily invite you to join me on my journey during what will hopefully become known as The Summer of Project "I Could Never." If you want to post your own "Nevers" in comments, facebook messages, e-mails, or even privately for no one but yourself, I encourage you to do so, and hope to keep you up to date about the progress of tackling my personal "Nevers" and hope you'll do the same.

Here's to strength: 
May we gain more with each passing day; 
To wisdom: 
May it be like sugar in our tea (a little goes a long way;) 
And to hope: 
May it flourish like the summer sun that (we hope) has come to stay.

See, I told you my poetry needs work.

Role Reversal

Tonight is Prom night in my hometown. Tonight hundreds of teens are getting dressed up, going out, and...well, you can finish that sentence as you see fit. Five years ago I was among them. God, that feels like so long ago. And yet, I don't know that I've traveled very far from that place--that place in life where you dress up and pretend to be a grown-up, where you think that because you've had some education you are therefore a walking encyclopedia of knowledge; that place where you believe that adventure and excitement and opportunity are all freely available to you if only you will seize upon them, and where you have been told that things "can only get better from here."

And while I catch myself laughing at the naivety of the young people I see around me, sometimes I have to stop and wonder if I am so very different from those I am so quick to judge. Am I so very different in being painfully aware of my HERE-NESS, especially in contrast to the ELSEWHERE-NESS of most of my friends? Am I any less cocky for having four extra years of edification to call mine? And really, other than a few numbers difference on our ID, what is there to show the world that I am utterly unlike the 16-year-olds I served food to and cleaned up after this evening?

...I hear about people from high school and college who are getting big important "adult" jobs, having babies, going back to school,  or moving across the country and I tell myself that I'm happy for them and not at all jealous. And 90% of the time I really do feel proud of those I love. I want them to be happy and successful in life and in love. But damn it, I want that for me too.  I want to KNOW beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a master plan of perpetual journey tramping to be had by me, and that this game of "dress up" and "pretend" is more than just an exercise in preparation for some distant time to come. I don't want to wake up and realize that life, like some kind of horror film or inescapable dream, is merely an extension of high school.

Now wouldn't that be a nightmare.

News!

...But, for the record, "the unknown" (at least in an exciting manner) will, for now, have to wait.

That is because I FINALLY got a job of a semi-permanent sort.  I started waiting tables at a wonderful place here in my home town and I think I like it so far. It's a far cry from digging trenches or German math homework, but I 'll take it for the learning experience it will no doubt provide. One would hope. And the chance to make a little money. One most definitely hopes. Hurrah!

Also, in my fervor for a sense of direction as regards my future edification, I have come to realize that, as with most things in life, there really is not a "perfect time" to do anything. And so, the great and seemingly-never-ending search for M.A.s of Awesomeness continues, if perhaps more slowly than before, as I must now shift my focus to my new employment and only occasionally obsess over the pros and cons of GRE prep courses and/or grad school in general. Though CU Boulder is looking better and better these days...(um, can you say "cha-ching?")

But let's please do ignore me for a moment and direct our attention to some people who have actually managed to make some really hard yet awesomely exciting decisions recently:

Congratulations are most notably due to my dear friends Libby, Aubrey and Devin who recently decided to join the ranks of BU, WWU, and Vanderbilt Law, respectively. I tell you what, dear readers, these ladies are some of the most intelligent women I have ever met--and on top of that, they are kickassinyourfacecrazyawesome. The world of higher academia is lucky to have them. And so am I.

 

Oh, and, double-plus-bonus? 

They are dog people : )

 T.J., Gatsby, and Indy for the win!

School and Life and Mountains

I've been thinking about school a lot lately. I miss the desks. I miss slamming my Norton down on the wood with zealousness and scribbling notes about Elizabethan politics as fast as I can. I miss sitting cross-legged on the tables upstairs in the classrooms in Westminster, reading and re-reading Lear's lines while a classmate cross-references them against a later text. I miss having heated yet beautifully friendly debates with my peers about everything from the merits of fictional characters to the impact of the 16th century Church on modern society. I miss sweating buckets over a presentation that took two people three days and information from four different libraries to complete. (Ok, so I don't miss the perspiration so much as the jubilation that followed.) And I miss the realization that one completed task meant one more mountain climbed, providing guidance and experience to drawn from in all the expeditions to come.

But at this moment I confess to feeling ill-equipped to surmount the next obstacle in my life. School, while indeed challenging, always had a trail, made clearly visible by the countless students who had gone before. Postgraduate life appears to be devoid of any such aids. Perhaps that is why I struggle with it so?

Maybe these new challenges are a kind of cosmic smoke-signal or footprint in the sand meant to lead me back where I began. After all, I feel quite at home in academia, so why not return to base camp and start the journey afresh from a vantage point I am familiar with?

But then I think, hell, maybe striking out on an as-yet un-blazed trail would be better for me! Somebody had to be the first to summit Everest, right? And perhaps, if I'm lucky, I will find illumination in the perspective brought by the view that few ever see, and from the journey that leads not back to the familiar, but onward, into the unknown...

Lamentation:

I wish I was brave enough to do the things that I am most afraid to do.