Lapsed Episcopalian

On Wednesday mornings my routine is to look at all of my readings for the week and put them onto a post-it note, then stick it to my calendar. I carry this with me wherever I go, and use it to plan out my week; what readings to do on what days, when to write, etc. It is especially helpful when I have an assignment due. This morning, however, as I was writing-in what I wanted to do I noticed that printed on my calendar was "Ash Wednesday." I am somewhat embarrassed not to have known this earlier. There was a time in my life that I was more in sync with the liturgical seasons. I liked having different times throughout the year to contemplate and celebrate for long periods of time. Now, here in the doctoral program in Lansing, it's mostly just one week at a time. (And for the past few weeks, it's been one day at a time).

For now, I can hold a moment of observance as I write this post. Not to make light of either, but the PhD program is like my own kind of Lent wilderness. I am at times very hungry, tired, disoriented, and grief-stricken for the community and landscape of my home. However, I am also deeply contemplative, provoked, and hopeful - all of which I think do occur during the Lent season. I find great beauty in intentional practice, and this year my practice seems to be simply observing where I am, how I see, and what I feel.

You Must Learn

KRS One, the teacha

I had another out of body moment tonight in one of my classes. We were talking about forces that influence curriculum and we started to move the conversation up into the 30,000 foot level (which I will add is where I am quite comfortable) and then I started to talk. I was trying to pivot off of two of my classmates, and then I realized I kind of had lost my train of thought. And then you know what popped into my head? KRS One. I don't know, it just happened. Fortunately a couple of my classmates got the reference, but it was mostly just me murmuring to myself after that. *Sigh. Late evening classes when I have too many other things on my mind will do that to me.

Reading for Pleasure

I read a lot these days. And I cannot help but reflect on my life as a reader. You see, I was never an avid reader or a reader at all. I hardly read books in school, and even when we had assigned reading I rarely did it. I've thought about this a lot during the past year, especially because there is so much about how reading "makes you a better person" or reading "makes you a good partner." What this actually means is that it is good to read, and in particular, to read fiction. And while I consider these claims in context, it prompts me to question why I never enjoyed reading until I was late in my teens. Why? Why didn't I read? Both of my parents were avid readers, and they read stories to me when I was a kid. But I never read for myself. I confess I "fake read" back then because I believed that reading was good, but I wasn't good at it, nor did I enjoy it. I remember in the 2nd grade being put in the low reading group. This was a complete blow to my seven-year old ego because until that point I thought maybe I was pretty smart. Alas, this happened a few times. And so I often skated through reading and used my artistic skills to make posters about books instead of writing an actual book report. I once made a beautiful poster for Julie of the Wolves. But I never read it. So again, why?

I think this is in part due to the fact that I was constantly being asked to read books that I could never relate to. They were, for lack of a better description, "boy books." And although Julie of the Wolves isn't necessarily a boy book, it came at a time when I was being bombarded by them. Here is a quick laundry list: Lord of the Flies, Johnny Tremain, Where the Red Fern Grows, Old Yeller, Gentle Ben, The Indian in the Cupboard. These were assigned reading, and I admit the only boy book I did read was Gentle Ben because I had to carry the weight of a dead-beat reading group in the 5th grade. I did not enjoy it.

Three reading moments happened during my youth that did give me some hope about reading. The first was a book that my third grade teacher, Mrs. Walp, gave me. I don't even know why she gave it to me, and I remember thinking "wow, she picked out a book just for me." It was brand new, and it was titled Poppy and the Outdoors Cat. Why she chose this book I'll never know, but I remember that the cover had a girl holding a cat, and I thought, "I'm a girl and I have an outdoor cat too!" A relationship was formed between me and Poppy. The second reading moment was a series of books my mom encouraged me to read when I was about 11. One was called Journey to Topaz, the other was Journey Home. It is obvious why my mom gave me these books (they are about a young Japanese American girl who, with her family, is relocated to a camp during WWII). Here again, I recognized the character, and it was deeply profound. An entire book about someone who looked a little like me, and thought some of the same things I did. I believed that if I met Yuki, the main character, she and I would be fast friends. Finally, the third moment happened when I was 16 and I read the book Animal Farm. Yes, this might be a "boy book" but this book changed how I came to read. It opened up the possibility of good utopian stories and it activated my imagination. There was nothing recognizable about this book, and thus, it confused me and angered me, and left me begging for more.

After that point, I realized that I could find my own books to read, and also read books I couldn't relate to, but still find something there. (For example, I hate A Separate Peace but there are moments of beauty in it. I say the same about Ethan Frome) I am still not incredibly well-read, but I do finally find pleasure out of reading. Even if these days I only read textbooks, I do sneak a few pages in of a novel or short story every once in a while. And I may eventually, finally read Lord of the Flies.

Proof-Reading Round Robin

One of the biggest things I've learned during this program is to have a proof-reader. I am about to turn in my first paper for one of my core classes, and so my reading group and I did our round-robin reading. We swap papers and edit them for one another. For this, I am extremely grateful. It helps me to get out of my own head, especially because when I focus too much on one paper I assume that all of my ideas are clearly stated. It also means that I have to be on top of writing because we usually swap the weekend before the paper is due. Thus, I handed off a version yesterday afternoon and got it back last night, so today I just need to roll in the feedback, edit again, and voila! It's done. And it's not due until Tuesday. Now I can focus on other things, or find a moment of rest. It is invaluable to have others read my work, provide feedback, and fix all my little mis-haps during the writing process.

Valentine's Day Fail

My initial card for V-Day, and I added the
nevermind after hearing the news that we
would in fact, not be together.

In 2013, Kevin was out of town for Valentine's Day. It was the first Valentine's Day we could celebrate together since getting married, and alas, it was not meant to be. In 2014, I looked forward to spending the day with him, but *sigh, I was in Michigan. I came out to Lansing to visit the program that I am now a part of. I remember sitting in the hotel room alone on the 14th of February, thinking about how a future in Michigan might treat us. Needless to say, I was totally freaked out at the time. This year, I was excited to finally spend Valentine's Day together. I'm not particularly a romantic, but I do appreciate the holiday. The folk history of the celebration, and of commemorating the return of spring are things I like to ritualize. And although little is known of THE Saint Valentine himself, I like the memory of imagination associated with courtly love and partnership. I also really like hearts. So, I decided to buy a book for Kevin this year, and I also made him a special card.

Then, on Tuesday, he told me that he had to make an un-planned trip for work, and he would be leaving Friday. That would be Friday the 13th. I actually had to laugh a little, because it just doesn't seem meant to be for he and I to spend this holiday together. And not that we need just this one day to express our love and appreciation to one another, but maybe it's some kind of sign that we are left with the ordinary days of the year to tell each other how much we care for one another. Maybe it's a reminder of the little normalcies that make us work together. Like how I clean the coffee maker and he always sets up the coffee. And so, like last year, I am in Michigan, and Kevin is on the west coast.

So Many Coats

Right at our front door, there are three hooks that were left from the previous tenants. They are kind of ugly, but they are so practical, so we kept them there. This time of year, we are using our front-door, mainly because we don't want to have to shovel the driveway all the way back to the back door. (We had been using the back door until about December when it became apparent that shoveling the long drive was a dumb idea). So, our front door area now takes the brunt of our entry - piles of coats, several boots lined up on a towel, and our shoe rack clumsily stuffed with tennis-shoes that were last worn in November. I also put a basket nearby to hold what I refer to as our "warmies." Hats, gloves, scarves, neck buffs. The only thing left to put in this area is a little box for our mail, because as of now, it usually gets sprawled on the coffee table, then eventually hidden under a pile of textbooks.

I Miss You

During class Tuesday we had a "substitute" teacher. Our professor was away at a conference, so another Higher Ed student came in to help facilitate. She asked if we could go around the room and introduce ourselves (ahem, "research agenda") and also what we were doing before we started the program at Michigan State. It came to my turn, and I did my usual little song, and then began "Before I moved to...uh...LANSING..." You see, I had accidentally let out to my cohort in this moment, that I didn't like it here. It's been a rough few weeks. Some days I walk outside and I think to myself, "What the hell am I doing here?" It's the combination of the weather, with a new semester, with the fact that it has taken me this long to realize what I am doing. The shiny-part of the program has worn off. Not that there was ever a honeymoon phase, but I have lost some of my stamina. There are things I just have to DO. I just have to WRITE.  And READ.

Then I realize that it's cold outside. Really cold. It's always cold. And when I walk outside I'm always afraid that this might be the day I slip and fall and break my wrist while trying to protect my laptop in my backpack from cushioning the blow of the fall. I just want to be able to walk, without strategizing every step. These little negotiations are what make me miss home, even though I don't know where home is. I guess I just miss Seattle. Even though that city drives me crazy sometimes. [Insert link about over-priced real estate and the tunnel here. Oh, and another link about really bad mass transit.]

So I hum a little tune: I miss the water. I miss rainy days. I miss my friends. I miss feeding my crows on the balcony. I miss my nephew. I miss my community. I miss you. Yet I love the seasons here. I love the people here. I love the small town here. I love how flat the landscape is here. I love the Mitten State.

These are my Michigan Blues. And while there is novelty and loveliness about living in the Midwest, these last few weeks I've been homesick for my Pacific Northwest Love.