25 Things About Me
Glennon Doyle started her successful blog, Momastery (pronounced like monastery, not mastery) with a list, 25 Things About Me. It seemed like an effective introduction to who she is and what the blog might be about. So, I thought I’d try the same. My best and worst trait is my honesty. When I write a long thoughtful email, I reread it several times before I send it AND every time someone replies. I also do this with my FB posts, I reread them every time I get a comment. Do other people do this? This is probably not a good habit for a blogger. Writing helps me to think more clearly. When I put things in writing I can organized my thoughts and see my faulty logic more clearly. I can name my feelings and distinguish ideas. When I write I can release myself from thinking the same thoughts over and over. Writing clears my mind. But comma placement still confuses me. I grew up in a small rural neighborhood (dozen houses) where just seven of us were all teenagers at the same time. Only three of us are still living; we’re in our mid 40s. This death thing keeps going though… I’ve dated 5 people on a long term basis. Two of them are alive right now, my husband and one ex. Count them, THREE dead exes. The ones who broke up with me are all dead now. (Really. I’m not making this stuff up.) My husband has been forewarned. I’ve had 5 coworkers or supervisors with cancer. Some I was quite close to. One kept it a secret; she told me two years after the hardest part of her battle, once she was certain she would survive. Two died. Four of them all worked in the same building that I did, and I wonder about the safety of our work environment back then. I was born on an infamous death day, the 30th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Three of my peers have died *on* my birthday. I mean, would you blame me if I told you that I spend a lot of time wondering if all of this death stuff is *about me* somehow? So, yeah, I’m writing a memoir about this. All told 11 of my peers have died. Some died from accidents, but most knew they were dying. I have learned deep meaningful life lessons from witnessing these folks’ lives. I have had a front row seat to several people shifting toward valuing every one of their last days, living with intention and meaning. For a decade I wondered what I would do if I knew were dying. I know the answer now. Stay tuned. I’m really comfortable talking about death, even with people who are facing it. It’s a challenging space to hold for people, but I can. I’ve had practice. In that space is rich clarity about what matters in life. It’s a gift for all who can stay present for it. Moving on from the death stuff… I’m kind of a rule follower. I smoked pot once. Might as well get that in the open. It was legal though. And no, I wasn’t in Colorado recently. I traveled to Amsterdam in college for a study abroad trip. A big group of us went to a “hash bar” and ordered a couple joints with our coffees then passed them around. I made sure I was inhaling big. I wanted the experience. But nothing. Nada. Didn’t feel a thing. Maybe I needed to have more of the joint than just the three drags I got. Others told me that you don’t feel it the first time and that I’d have to try again. No thanks. Not my thing. I just wanted to say that I did it, and that it was legal. In my life at some point I’ve claimed all of the following religions/beliefs in no particular order: atheist, United Methodist, Jehovah’s Witness, agnostic, and self-constructed. I was born and raised in Virginia. I spent most of my childhood in the same town my father grew up in, and his parents, and so on. In my direct genealogical line, I am the first “Carter” who lived outside of the state of Virginia (other than for war) since the 1600s when they arrived here from Bedfordshire, England. I love history now, but as a child I hated it. My only D in college was a history class, European Civilization. I didn’t begin to like history until I left Virginia and I could see how local histories shaped those places. When I moved back to Virginia I was ready to know about its history and my own. I am a descendant of both a Confederate and a Union soldier. I think a lot about what this legacy means for me in this lifetime. I feel a special duty given my social inheritance. I’ve moved around quite a bit as an adult. I lived in central Pennsylvania for five years for graduate school and my first job. I did two quick summer internships in South Carolina and North Carolina. I moved to Chicago with a love interest, and stayed there for nine years working and studying. Then I got a tenure track faculty job in Hawaii (!) where I lived with my husband and gave birth to our two kids. After four years there we moved back to my home state of Virginia where I live now. I lost my tenure track job eight years ago. What they say is true, that you shouldn’t have kids while on the tenure track. So be it. My kids were born when I was 36 and 38. I wasn’t about to wait until my 40s because higher education can’t figure out how to make the tenure-track more human-friendly. Okay, so the “so be it” attitude is relatively new for me. I was really crushed to lose my job. I internalized a lot of it. I was
30 Essays
I’ve been talking about starting this blog for about a year now. I noticed that I had essays floating in my head. Not just thoughts or topics, but essays. Each was loosely outlined with stories and supporting points. I’d find myself reciting parts of these essays to people in conversations. Months ago, when there were just five, I figured I should start a list of essays. So I did. There are 30 now, and I’m sure it will keep growing. Flashback. When I was 23 years old I experienced the hardest break up of my life. My body ached from sadness. I lost weight when I didn’t have any to lose. I fell asleep at night fine, but I couldn’t stay asleep. I vowed to cut off all communication with my ex so that I could move on, but my thoughts of our past and what-ifs overcame me each day. I processed with a therapist and two dear friends who held space for me for weeks. My thoughts cycled through old stories of us, and I worked to critically examine old narratives. As I reflected, learned, connected, and built on my thoughts, I allowed my feelings to crash inside deeper and louder — screaming anger, hopeless loss, and dark grief. Eventually, though, the thoughts became redundant. I wasn’t processing anything new, but churning through a loop, the same thoughts and emotions every day. I figured out why. My mind raced because I was afraid I’d forget. My thoughts and feelings were gold to me. I had discovered valuable life lessons through my processing. I wanted to remember them! So I woke up trying desperately to remember and feel everything. Every day. I was exhausted and felt trapped. Until I discovered journaling. I figured, if I wrote down my thoughts and allowed my emotions to burst out onto the page, my daily mind would feel allowed to forget these things. And it worked. I was free and moved on. Now twenty-some years later, I’m in my mid-40s, and my mind is racing again on a repeating loop. But it’s different this time. Three years ago I had what some might call a mid-life crisis. I call it a crisis of integrity; I discovered that I wasn’t who I said I was. I had been angry more often than I admitted. I was arrogant, critical of others, and self-promoting. I insisted that I was more valuable than I felt allowed to be. I felt undervalued at work and at home. I said I cared about people and fairness, but I wasn’t involved in my community. I had told myself that I could make an impact as an academic — through teaching my students, changing campus processes for all students’ success, and contributing knowledge through my research. But I couldn’t. So, I quit my full-time academic job. Yikes. I took a giant step back, away from the “shoulds” of life – away from obligation, expectations, and proving myself. I dove into self-discovery work. I “broke up” with my status quo life. I found a good therapist, attended retreats, and learned meditation. I slowed down. Way down. I read books, took walks, and picked up a jigsaw habit. I got to know myself deep down in the shadows and the light. I thought, processed, and connected. And journaled. I journaled through it for sure. So I was free to move on. Truly, I experienced an awakening. As I reengaged with my community, I did so with more integrity. I do professional work that brings me the most joy – teaching, facilitating, speaking, volunteering, and writing. I’m immersed in my community and try to put authenticity and intention into my choices. And I have kept my slow pace. The vail of my own self-judgement has lifted. I am a truer version of me. And I’m not done; never done. This is what I know now. I am a smart and valuable person. I’ve doubted that for too long, far enough down into my subconscious that my conscious brain didn’t even know I held that doubt. My arrogance and anger was the evidence of my deeply held self-doubt. But now I know. Finding that doubt freed me to release it. Now I am certain of my value and don’t feel compelled to prove it to anyone. No validation necessary. It’s just true whether others agree or not. I think creatively and make connections that I don’t see many others making. I have something of value to say. The 30 essays, they are the lessons, connections, concepts that are not just mine, but mine to share. And they are my contribution to the world, not just the pages of my journals. I feel called, from a humble place inside of me, to share these stories. What are these essays about? What will this blog be about? Some are methods, lessons, and stories of self-discovery work. Some are academic concepts that can be applied to life and current events. Some are a specific reckoning with ancestors and myself. Some are about burning life questions. Most of them explore a middle-place, paradox, and the counter-intuitive. They are…Gray Areas.