Posts
I've shifted my blogging activities once again back to the WordPress version of Into the West ~ you'll be able to keep up with my thoughts and activities there. WordPress allows me more flexibility for my future writing ~ I'm really looking forward to returning to more frequent and indepth writing.
I will keep a link on the WordPress site to this blog ~ there's some writing here that I still enjoy reading ~ maybe you do to?!
Friday, July 1, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Between the sea foam and the sea sand
Of all the 'things' that I left behind in Massachusetts (this does not include people!) I miss nothing except my books. All 30 boxes of them. While there is a distinct pleasure in being able to go to the Google homepage and type in 'feral' and find out all sorts of interesting things, it is nothing like the pleasure of following a wave of synchronicity.
I had bookcases in every room of my home in Sheffield except the two bathrooms. I had a series of semi-circles scattered over the floors of living and bedroom that would begin, innocently enough, with one book that reminded me of something in another book which reminded me of something in another book and suddenly there were many many books scattered about as I dove in and out of them as a dolphin leaping from wave to wave.
I've tried to put that particular loss out of my mind - I don't know when/if I'll be able to return to the green hills of the Berkshires to load up a truck and bring them 'home'. I don't yet know where home lies for me. But recently I've been re-minded of the experience. I sit now with piles and half-circles of books and journal articles behind my chair. I turn my head to the right and I see actor network theory and nature writers and writer's manuals ... I turn my head to the left and I see wolves and myths, semiotics and research design, and book after book on the philosophy of nature. As if. As if we really need a philosophy of nature. As we needed more than to walk with respect and attention through this world. But, we funny little sapiens ... we think and ponder and wonder and we become lost in the maze of our thoughts rather than found on the paths of woodland or desert or prairie.
The past few days I've been caught up in a wave of synchronicity. It began with the earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan like Thor's hammer. The images of the waters moving so powerfully over the land, like a giant, still asleep, shrugging and shifting in a dream. No clear intention but oh, so indomitable. And we, frightened little sapiens rushing around with a sudden knowledge and cold fear of our complete inability to control ... anything.
The drowned number in the thousands ... too many for us to truly comprehend, and too many for us to want to. The drowned trouble my sleep. Not the thousands of anonymous that were swept away last Friday, but the two who I knew.
One, a stranger ... a young girl who was walking home in a snowstorm with her brother. We chatted a moment and then they went off to play along the banks of the sleepy Housatonic River. The boy was dragged into the water, the younger sister pulled him back to shore and then was lost herself. They found her days later, downriver. I think of her from time to time, and the brother as well. Both lost in different ways.
One, my husband. Diving with friends in Gloucester Harbor. They disobeyed the cardinal rule of diving: never lose sight of your partner. But when you're too stoned to think clearly all kinds of accidents can occur that would be entirely avoidable otherwise. I never told his parents that it was easy to explain the 'unexplainable' accident. They were more comfortable blaming a mysterious god who had his reasons than they would have been blaming the victim of his own, regrettable foolhardiness. He and I were also both lost ... in different ways. His, perhaps the easier path.
And so I sleep and my dreams are filled with waves. I am caught, I am tumbled, I am surrounded by the untamed and untameable power of water. This is a visceral experience for me ... I spent much time in the ocean as a child and a teen. I know the joy of riding wave on wave, I know the fear of being tugged and pulled into the undertow, and I know the relief of being tossed out onto the sandy shore. Safe. For another moment.
Earlier today, I was reading Wendell Berry's collected essays for my thesis. I'm trying to find words ... mine, anyone's ... to explain the damage done by humans as we have taken the natural continuum between 'wild' and 'domesticated' and twisted it into a continuum between sterile and feral. I'm trying to explain the hubris of our attitudes as we attempt to pull away from the web of life and only end up distorting it. Here is what Berry had to say to me this morning, as he wrote about a canoe trip on the rising Kentucky River:
I am wandering the land between the sea foam and the sea sand of the old folk song, negotiating my way between horror and beauty and companionship. It is, like all ecotones, rich and dangerous.
I had bookcases in every room of my home in Sheffield except the two bathrooms. I had a series of semi-circles scattered over the floors of living and bedroom that would begin, innocently enough, with one book that reminded me of something in another book which reminded me of something in another book and suddenly there were many many books scattered about as I dove in and out of them as a dolphin leaping from wave to wave.
I've tried to put that particular loss out of my mind - I don't know when/if I'll be able to return to the green hills of the Berkshires to load up a truck and bring them 'home'. I don't yet know where home lies for me. But recently I've been re-minded of the experience. I sit now with piles and half-circles of books and journal articles behind my chair. I turn my head to the right and I see actor network theory and nature writers and writer's manuals ... I turn my head to the left and I see wolves and myths, semiotics and research design, and book after book on the philosophy of nature. As if. As if we really need a philosophy of nature. As we needed more than to walk with respect and attention through this world. But, we funny little sapiens ... we think and ponder and wonder and we become lost in the maze of our thoughts rather than found on the paths of woodland or desert or prairie.
The past few days I've been caught up in a wave of synchronicity. It began with the earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan like Thor's hammer. The images of the waters moving so powerfully over the land, like a giant, still asleep, shrugging and shifting in a dream. No clear intention but oh, so indomitable. And we, frightened little sapiens rushing around with a sudden knowledge and cold fear of our complete inability to control ... anything.
The drowned number in the thousands ... too many for us to truly comprehend, and too many for us to want to. The drowned trouble my sleep. Not the thousands of anonymous that were swept away last Friday, but the two who I knew.
One, a stranger ... a young girl who was walking home in a snowstorm with her brother. We chatted a moment and then they went off to play along the banks of the sleepy Housatonic River. The boy was dragged into the water, the younger sister pulled him back to shore and then was lost herself. They found her days later, downriver. I think of her from time to time, and the brother as well. Both lost in different ways.
One, my husband. Diving with friends in Gloucester Harbor. They disobeyed the cardinal rule of diving: never lose sight of your partner. But when you're too stoned to think clearly all kinds of accidents can occur that would be entirely avoidable otherwise. I never told his parents that it was easy to explain the 'unexplainable' accident. They were more comfortable blaming a mysterious god who had his reasons than they would have been blaming the victim of his own, regrettable foolhardiness. He and I were also both lost ... in different ways. His, perhaps the easier path.
And so I sleep and my dreams are filled with waves. I am caught, I am tumbled, I am surrounded by the untamed and untameable power of water. This is a visceral experience for me ... I spent much time in the ocean as a child and a teen. I know the joy of riding wave on wave, I know the fear of being tugged and pulled into the undertow, and I know the relief of being tossed out onto the sandy shore. Safe. For another moment.
Earlier today, I was reading Wendell Berry's collected essays for my thesis. I'm trying to find words ... mine, anyone's ... to explain the damage done by humans as we have taken the natural continuum between 'wild' and 'domesticated' and twisted it into a continuum between sterile and feral. I'm trying to explain the hubris of our attitudes as we attempt to pull away from the web of life and only end up distorting it. Here is what Berry had to say to me this morning, as he wrote about a canoe trip on the rising Kentucky River:
There is something deeply horrifying about [the river] roused. Not, I think, because it is inhuman, alien to us; some of us at least must feel a kinship with it, or we would not loiter around it for pleasure. The horror must come from our sense that, so long as it remains what it is, it is not subject. To say that it is indifferent would be wrong. That would imply a malevolence, as if it could be aware of us, if only it wanted to. It is more remote from our concerns than indifference. It is serenely and silently not subject--to us or to anything else except the other natural forces that are also beyond our control. And it is apt to stand for and represent to us all in nature and in the universe that is not subject. That is its horror. We can make use of it. We can ride on its back in boats. But it won't stop to let us get on and off. It is not a passenger train. And if we make a mistake, or risk ourselves too far to it, why then it will suffer a little wrinkle on its surface and go on as before.I think that it is this horror (to tremble or shudder) that many of us disconnected little sapiens feel when we extirpate a species because it is competing with our financial well-being, when we shave off the top of a mountain so we can heat our homes, when we clear-cut a forest so we can print out a ream of marketing mailers that everyone will throw away.
I am wandering the land between the sea foam and the sea sand of the old folk song, negotiating my way between horror and beauty and companionship. It is, like all ecotones, rich and dangerous.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
My Thesis is a Matzoh
I'm heading 'round the final curve, now, and into the homestretch of my thesis.
Some days I feel like the driver, encouraging my writing forward with a light touch, other days I'm holding on for dear life with the sulky careening from side to side, and less often I feel like the horse being driven forward by the limits of time, understanding, knowledge, skill.
In the next few hours I'll send out the already-written chapters to my committee. I think I have about 40 pages so far. Maybe that many more left to write. I was visiting yesterday with Chad - he's on my committee, the head of our department, a professor, but mostly I think of him as a friend. I told him that I hoped the committee would be the yeast in my thesis - helping me to increase the size in a nourishing way. He laughed and asked if I was offering an unleavened thesis. Yes! My thesis is a matzoh - it might be a little slim right now -flat, as Chad suggested. It might crumble and break easily - but if that was good enough for the ancient tribes of Israel to sustain them as they left Egypt for the desert, it will have to be good enough for me, right now, in this first draft.
I've had to come to terms and accept ... this will not be the best thesis I can write. It will, however, be the best thesis I can write under the circumstances; within the limits of time, skill, and understanding. Each semester, I've added a little bit here, a little bit there. Each conversation has aided me in integrating information and turning it into my personal treasure house of knowledge. Each class I teach has opened the door to increased proficiency in how I think, how I write, and what I know. For all of this, I'm grateful.
Do I feel pressured? Of course, this is comparable to giving birth. I'm not the first person to point out the similarity of the two labors. I feel excited and proud - as when I first learned to tie my shoes - look! I can do this! I feel sorrow - the success of my thesis also marks the final moments of my time in Butte. I've accomplished much, I've grown into my self in ways I had never anticipated, but I've also failed in the endeavor that was most dear to my heart.
Joy. Sorrow. Celebration. Loss. Each experience a tile in the mosaic of the flowering of Life. My life, your life, our lives.
Some days I feel like the driver, encouraging my writing forward with a light touch, other days I'm holding on for dear life with the sulky careening from side to side, and less often I feel like the horse being driven forward by the limits of time, understanding, knowledge, skill.
In the next few hours I'll send out the already-written chapters to my committee. I think I have about 40 pages so far. Maybe that many more left to write. I was visiting yesterday with Chad - he's on my committee, the head of our department, a professor, but mostly I think of him as a friend. I told him that I hoped the committee would be the yeast in my thesis - helping me to increase the size in a nourishing way. He laughed and asked if I was offering an unleavened thesis. Yes! My thesis is a matzoh - it might be a little slim right now -flat, as Chad suggested. It might crumble and break easily - but if that was good enough for the ancient tribes of Israel to sustain them as they left Egypt for the desert, it will have to be good enough for me, right now, in this first draft.
I've had to come to terms and accept ... this will not be the best thesis I can write. It will, however, be the best thesis I can write under the circumstances; within the limits of time, skill, and understanding. Each semester, I've added a little bit here, a little bit there. Each conversation has aided me in integrating information and turning it into my personal treasure house of knowledge. Each class I teach has opened the door to increased proficiency in how I think, how I write, and what I know. For all of this, I'm grateful.
Do I feel pressured? Of course, this is comparable to giving birth. I'm not the first person to point out the similarity of the two labors. I feel excited and proud - as when I first learned to tie my shoes - look! I can do this! I feel sorrow - the success of my thesis also marks the final moments of my time in Butte. I've accomplished much, I've grown into my self in ways I had never anticipated, but I've also failed in the endeavor that was most dear to my heart.
Joy. Sorrow. Celebration. Loss. Each experience a tile in the mosaic of the flowering of Life. My life, your life, our lives.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Medical Performance
Today I was treated to an excellent performance art piece at my healthcare provider's office. Some of you may know my distaste for people who live their lives as performers ... but this is a different story.
I'll start, though, with a note of gratitude and appreciation. For the most part, the individuals--the actual people who I interact with--they are doing their best in a situation where they are overwhelmed with too many patients, too much paperwork, too many potentials for lawsuits. I believe the people are good-hearted people who got into the healthcare field because they care. Or, they did when they began and it was worn away by the daily trafficking with and through the system.
Today was the end of a long week of out-of-control blood glucose levels--after almost a year of stability. Readings ranged from a low of 107 to a high of over 350 (the normal range is 90-120 ... my normal is 110 - 160). The jumps and drops throughout the day made pretty graphs, but were alarming in their intensity. The physical symptoms are frightening: compromised eyesight, lightheadedness, and heart palpitations.
I called the doctor's office and explained the symptoms and the numbers. "Oh dear, says the receptionist, that doesn't sound good - the first appointment we have is the end of March". The doctor: away until Monday. The nurse: may or may not be around this week. My options: wait til someone gets back to me. I called the next day: sorry, no one is available to talk with you. You'll have to wait til the doctor gets back next week.
This morning I explained, with some little anger, that I would be coming to the office today at 2pm and would wait until someone would see me. "Our doctors are too busy, I was told, we might find a nurse who can see you". Health. Care. Not very caring.
I got to the office at 2pm and was told that the diabetes counselor was available today and would be able to see me. "Just have a seat and the nurse will see you soon". Over an hour later, I was called in to be chastised by Nurse #1. She looked at me sadly and explained that there was really no point in my showing up today--the doctor was the only one who could help me. I explained my symptoms, my concerns, and the fact that I was told the diabetes counselor would see me. "Oh no! the nurse explained, that counselor had other duties today and couldn't possibly..."
The nurse left and came back accompanied by another nurse. Instead of good cop/bad cop - I got sweet nurse and stern nurse. They twittered at me without really listening at all. They explained away all my symptoms: not that serious, nothing to worry about, there won't be long term damage, this really isn't a problem.
My experience was entirely dismissed. My fears were glossed over. I was praised, the way one might praise a dog doing a clever trick, for bringing in a record of my blood sugars over the past week. But ... I was also told to stop the testing. "Pick three time during the day that you will test .. and then only test at those times ... now promise that you'll do that" I was told by stern nurse. When I asked about testing when I felt highs or lows, she shook her head and said: no.
I think that the best part of the performance today was when I offered the record of my blood readings. They leafed through the medical files with helpless looks on their faces and refused to take it. There was no 'official' place to put information from the patient. None. The patient, essentially, does not exist. Only the approved tests and results that describe the patient exist. The patient doesn't really exist without the presence of the doctor or the 'official' nurse. I was a ghost in their machine... and I was speaking and acting out of turn ... as if my experience was meaningful. To the performers in this system, it was not meaningful at all.
They didn't have the authority to make an appointment with the doctor. Only the 'official' nurse was allowed to do that. So, I departed with an appointment to see the mysterious diabetes counselor next week. On Tuesday. Because that's what the system allows. And I was trying to jam the system in order to find answers to what has gone wrong and how to correct it.
Meanwhile, I am blessed with the kindness of my friends who call to check on me, who offer rides if necessary, who keep track of my health records on line ... just in case an emergency does arise.
I'll start, though, with a note of gratitude and appreciation. For the most part, the individuals--the actual people who I interact with--they are doing their best in a situation where they are overwhelmed with too many patients, too much paperwork, too many potentials for lawsuits. I believe the people are good-hearted people who got into the healthcare field because they care. Or, they did when they began and it was worn away by the daily trafficking with and through the system.
Today was the end of a long week of out-of-control blood glucose levels--after almost a year of stability. Readings ranged from a low of 107 to a high of over 350 (the normal range is 90-120 ... my normal is 110 - 160). The jumps and drops throughout the day made pretty graphs, but were alarming in their intensity. The physical symptoms are frightening: compromised eyesight, lightheadedness, and heart palpitations.
I called the doctor's office and explained the symptoms and the numbers. "Oh dear, says the receptionist, that doesn't sound good - the first appointment we have is the end of March". The doctor: away until Monday. The nurse: may or may not be around this week. My options: wait til someone gets back to me. I called the next day: sorry, no one is available to talk with you. You'll have to wait til the doctor gets back next week.
This morning I explained, with some little anger, that I would be coming to the office today at 2pm and would wait until someone would see me. "Our doctors are too busy, I was told, we might find a nurse who can see you". Health. Care. Not very caring.
I got to the office at 2pm and was told that the diabetes counselor was available today and would be able to see me. "Just have a seat and the nurse will see you soon". Over an hour later, I was called in to be chastised by Nurse #1. She looked at me sadly and explained that there was really no point in my showing up today--the doctor was the only one who could help me. I explained my symptoms, my concerns, and the fact that I was told the diabetes counselor would see me. "Oh no! the nurse explained, that counselor had other duties today and couldn't possibly..."
The nurse left and came back accompanied by another nurse. Instead of good cop/bad cop - I got sweet nurse and stern nurse. They twittered at me without really listening at all. They explained away all my symptoms: not that serious, nothing to worry about, there won't be long term damage, this really isn't a problem.
My experience was entirely dismissed. My fears were glossed over. I was praised, the way one might praise a dog doing a clever trick, for bringing in a record of my blood sugars over the past week. But ... I was also told to stop the testing. "Pick three time during the day that you will test .. and then only test at those times ... now promise that you'll do that" I was told by stern nurse. When I asked about testing when I felt highs or lows, she shook her head and said: no.
I think that the best part of the performance today was when I offered the record of my blood readings. They leafed through the medical files with helpless looks on their faces and refused to take it. There was no 'official' place to put information from the patient. None. The patient, essentially, does not exist. Only the approved tests and results that describe the patient exist. The patient doesn't really exist without the presence of the doctor or the 'official' nurse. I was a ghost in their machine... and I was speaking and acting out of turn ... as if my experience was meaningful. To the performers in this system, it was not meaningful at all.
They didn't have the authority to make an appointment with the doctor. Only the 'official' nurse was allowed to do that. So, I departed with an appointment to see the mysterious diabetes counselor next week. On Tuesday. Because that's what the system allows. And I was trying to jam the system in order to find answers to what has gone wrong and how to correct it.
Meanwhile, I am blessed with the kindness of my friends who call to check on me, who offer rides if necessary, who keep track of my health records on line ... just in case an emergency does arise.
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