Yesterday I walked over to the College of Business to work a shift at the Welcome Tent. The university sets up several of these around campus, food service stocks them with cookies and hot apple cider, and faculty volunteers staff them for the first couple of days of class, making returning and new students feel welcome and answering any questions they might have.
There were three faculty chatting at the table when I walked up. I greeted them, and the one I knew by name introduced me around to the others. "When I first started here," he said, "Donna bought me coffee and spent an hour talking with me. I've never forgotten it."
His reminiscence startled me. I had certainly forgotten it. But it came back to me. I had seen him at church, and gone over to say hello and introduce myself during the peace. He mentioned that he was new at UCA, and I emailed later to invite him to grab a cup of coffee and chat. Make him feel welcome, just like we were trying to do with the students that day. Answer his questions. And here he was, twelve and a half years later, telling these other faculty how much it meant to him.
I remember that impulse, to take some extra time to make sure someone sees a friendly face, has someone to listen to them. It's something that I was never consistent in doing, back in those early days, but occasionally the opportunity would arise and I would seize it. The busier I got, the higher-stakes every hour of my day seemed to be, the less I did that. I've been uncomfortably aware of how little time I've been willing to devote to such things in the past few years. One of my 2015 resolutions is to commit to them again -- to spend time with students and colleagues, to take advantage of those chances that come along to be the friendly face, the listening ear.
Thanks, Mark, for reminding me how much even a little time, a long time ago, can matter.
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Friday, January 9, 2015
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
New Year's Day (Observed)
Noel noted today that the new year doesn't really begin unti the kids go back to school and the routine of work sets back in. That was today. Campus reopened, public school resumed, and at least in terms of our schedule, normalcy was restored.
Now, I can't say that I'm back to my usual routine, and I'm sure glad that's the case. As an administrator, I come back to work a few days before the rest of the faculty, and a little more than a week before classes resume. The office is quiet, there's plenty of time to work without interruption, and few meetings (and no classes) intervene with their repetitive urgency.
I'm happy to ease back into work. My colleague Phil and I are building an entirely new class, and we have a lot of work to do in the next few days to get that underway. But we've worked together closely before, we know each other well, and I have little anxiety about getting it done. There are several long-range projects underway that will be continuing this semester with committees and all that they entail; some of these have been muddling along in a two-steps-forward, one-step-back pattern, and though none of us are eager to get back into them, we'll all be glad to see them done.
And then there are big, intense, short-term efforts for the semester. We're conducting a faculty search, with three candidates visiting in the first three full weeks of classes. Our admissions process will begin with application review after the priority deadline of January 15, and keep up at a steady pace through three full-day interviews and final selection in mid-March. In the midst of all that, I have my usual regional religious studies conference, and I'm teaching a month-long Christian education course on Hell and a three-day short course on the Reformation.
Added all up like that, it seems like a very busy semester. Luckily I only have to live it one day at a time. And even better, I have a few days yet to get up to speed.
Now, I can't say that I'm back to my usual routine, and I'm sure glad that's the case. As an administrator, I come back to work a few days before the rest of the faculty, and a little more than a week before classes resume. The office is quiet, there's plenty of time to work without interruption, and few meetings (and no classes) intervene with their repetitive urgency.
I'm happy to ease back into work. My colleague Phil and I are building an entirely new class, and we have a lot of work to do in the next few days to get that underway. But we've worked together closely before, we know each other well, and I have little anxiety about getting it done. There are several long-range projects underway that will be continuing this semester with committees and all that they entail; some of these have been muddling along in a two-steps-forward, one-step-back pattern, and though none of us are eager to get back into them, we'll all be glad to see them done.
And then there are big, intense, short-term efforts for the semester. We're conducting a faculty search, with three candidates visiting in the first three full weeks of classes. Our admissions process will begin with application review after the priority deadline of January 15, and keep up at a steady pace through three full-day interviews and final selection in mid-March. In the midst of all that, I have my usual regional religious studies conference, and I'm teaching a month-long Christian education course on Hell and a three-day short course on the Reformation.
Added all up like that, it seems like a very busy semester. Luckily I only have to live it one day at a time. And even better, I have a few days yet to get up to speed.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Respite
I like taking the weekend off whenever I can. It's not always possible at my busiest times. But the weekend is an essential period of recharging, resting, and recreating for me. Whenever I can successfully compartmentalize home life from work life, I do it. I find it makes me appreciate both spheres of activity more fully.
Intersessions pose a challenge to that philosophy. We're quickly approaching winter break, and this year because of a late start to the semester, the last day we full-year employees are supposed to be at work is the day after grades are turned in. Usually there are two or three days after that day -- which is a very busy one, considering grades must be reviewed, grants awarded, and scholarships renewed based on that data -- to wind the semester down and do some prep for the next one.
Much of the winding down comes with an inflexible deadline. Everything has to be graded in time for the grading deadline; that's the biggest one for faculty. Any communications with students prompted by their performance has to be done before the university shutters, whenever that is. But the preparation for next year is naggingly unconfined to working hours. Course construction of all kinds might be done by the ultra-efficient before leaving for break, but most of us are probably still assembling syllabi and schedules in early January. Some projects span semesters, like student theses or research endeavors. And of course there's work that is not course related -- publications, scholarship, editing, writing. Breaks are often times when we turn to that kind of work, trying at the very least to leave teaching behind when office hours cease.
Where does that leave my carefully hoarded off hours? The time I want to devote to my avocations, my family, my church, my health, my soul -- all without the feeling that I should be working, that feeling that saps the joy and presence from that time and replaces it with guilt or anxiety? I've written before that I am most blissful when those hours are not stolen here and there from my schedule, but instead pile up in wanton excess -- uninterrupted days devoted to my free choice of projects. But I understand better and better than, as much as I love and crave those times, they are rare and cannot be expected as my due. Most people have busy lives and full calendars; their hobbies and passions, the ones that don't count as work, have to be undertaken in between everything else that demands their attention on other people's timetables.
All that is to say that this weekend, while Noel was in Chicago and I was taking care of the kids on my own, contained more than my fair share of restfulness. I gave myself the weekend off after an extremely high-pressure week executing the Craftin' for CASA sale, even though I'm predictably behind on the grading that has to be done quickly as the semester rushes to its close, even though complex initiatives in the areas of curriculum and hiring and planning are clamoring for attention before everyone scatters, even though a colleague and I are creating a new course to debut in 45 days for which all the structure that currently exists is a list of required textbooks. A rainy Sunday led to an afternoon where Archer played Wii, Cady Gray worked on a craft kit, and I happily cut fabrics for a sewing project. Only when I looked up from my intense concentration on accurate measuring and cutting and realized that I hadn't been interrupted by a child in an hour.
That's all I can ask on a day when I'm solely responsible for them. And combined with my determination not to let academic work intrude on my mental life for sixty hours or so, it's profoundly rejuvenating.
Intersessions pose a challenge to that philosophy. We're quickly approaching winter break, and this year because of a late start to the semester, the last day we full-year employees are supposed to be at work is the day after grades are turned in. Usually there are two or three days after that day -- which is a very busy one, considering grades must be reviewed, grants awarded, and scholarships renewed based on that data -- to wind the semester down and do some prep for the next one.
Much of the winding down comes with an inflexible deadline. Everything has to be graded in time for the grading deadline; that's the biggest one for faculty. Any communications with students prompted by their performance has to be done before the university shutters, whenever that is. But the preparation for next year is naggingly unconfined to working hours. Course construction of all kinds might be done by the ultra-efficient before leaving for break, but most of us are probably still assembling syllabi and schedules in early January. Some projects span semesters, like student theses or research endeavors. And of course there's work that is not course related -- publications, scholarship, editing, writing. Breaks are often times when we turn to that kind of work, trying at the very least to leave teaching behind when office hours cease.
Where does that leave my carefully hoarded off hours? The time I want to devote to my avocations, my family, my church, my health, my soul -- all without the feeling that I should be working, that feeling that saps the joy and presence from that time and replaces it with guilt or anxiety? I've written before that I am most blissful when those hours are not stolen here and there from my schedule, but instead pile up in wanton excess -- uninterrupted days devoted to my free choice of projects. But I understand better and better than, as much as I love and crave those times, they are rare and cannot be expected as my due. Most people have busy lives and full calendars; their hobbies and passions, the ones that don't count as work, have to be undertaken in between everything else that demands their attention on other people's timetables.
All that is to say that this weekend, while Noel was in Chicago and I was taking care of the kids on my own, contained more than my fair share of restfulness. I gave myself the weekend off after an extremely high-pressure week executing the Craftin' for CASA sale, even though I'm predictably behind on the grading that has to be done quickly as the semester rushes to its close, even though complex initiatives in the areas of curriculum and hiring and planning are clamoring for attention before everyone scatters, even though a colleague and I are creating a new course to debut in 45 days for which all the structure that currently exists is a list of required textbooks. A rainy Sunday led to an afternoon where Archer played Wii, Cady Gray worked on a craft kit, and I happily cut fabrics for a sewing project. Only when I looked up from my intense concentration on accurate measuring and cutting and realized that I hadn't been interrupted by a child in an hour.
That's all I can ask on a day when I'm solely responsible for them. And combined with my determination not to let academic work intrude on my mental life for sixty hours or so, it's profoundly rejuvenating.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Summer's last moments
I've never completely understood why we let the calendar have such dominion over our lives. No wearing white after Labor Day, Memorial Day as the official start of summer, New Year's Day we have to eat black eyed peas. I used to roll my eyes when people would talk about what they needed to do on this particular day or another -- things they could do at any time, but felt compelled to do along with everybody else because the calendar said so.
Now I think I'm getting the hang of it. On Labor Day weekend, for the last several years, one or another of our friends has organized a picnic at the lake or invited everyone over to grill out. It's an extra day of leisure, to be sure, but it's also a reminder. We need to gather with each other, feast, play, communicate, empathize, connect.
As a loner by nature, I always resented the times that tradition took away my freedom to keep to myself. I'm glad my children, at least in their pre-teenage years, don't have that attitude. They love going to others' houses for parties or having people over at our house. They look forward to those special days on the calendar that signal celebrations.
I still prefer to stay away from the big locations on the big days -- the crowds, the traffic jams, the hassle and expense. But I understand much better why these red-letter days trigger people to make special plans and special efforts. It's because the calendar can remind us to take time for each other, and to take time to mark time. As time begins to pass quickly in our children's lives and in our lives with them, I begin to see the value of that attitude.
Now I think I'm getting the hang of it. On Labor Day weekend, for the last several years, one or another of our friends has organized a picnic at the lake or invited everyone over to grill out. It's an extra day of leisure, to be sure, but it's also a reminder. We need to gather with each other, feast, play, communicate, empathize, connect.
As a loner by nature, I always resented the times that tradition took away my freedom to keep to myself. I'm glad my children, at least in their pre-teenage years, don't have that attitude. They love going to others' houses for parties or having people over at our house. They look forward to those special days on the calendar that signal celebrations.
I still prefer to stay away from the big locations on the big days -- the crowds, the traffic jams, the hassle and expense. But I understand much better why these red-letter days trigger people to make special plans and special efforts. It's because the calendar can remind us to take time for each other, and to take time to mark time. As time begins to pass quickly in our children's lives and in our lives with them, I begin to see the value of that attitude.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Cross country flight
I look forward to traveling for work mainly for the airport and airplane time. With nothing to do but wait, there is time to read and think -- hours and hours of it.
On my trip to San Francisco tomorrow, there will not only be lots of time, but lots to do to fill it up. A lengthy board book and dozens of supporting documents to read ... a thesis to read and comment on ... it may be a four-hour flight, but I'm anticipating that work will expand to close to that length.
On the way back, there will be two class days' worth of student work to read, possibly necessitating the purchase of in-flight internet. And in between, I have fifteen hours of meetings to attend to discuss all that material I read on the way up.
Yet there still seems to be so much time. Long layovers in Dallas-Fort Worth, an evening on my own here, an unscheduled afternoon there. Spring break has given me a taste for those unbroken hours during which I can indulge my desire to overindulge on a book, a research project, a knitting odyssey. There may not be many of those periods during the next four days, but if I can grab even a taste of summer's leisurely pace, I'm going to enjoy it.
On my trip to San Francisco tomorrow, there will not only be lots of time, but lots to do to fill it up. A lengthy board book and dozens of supporting documents to read ... a thesis to read and comment on ... it may be a four-hour flight, but I'm anticipating that work will expand to close to that length.
On the way back, there will be two class days' worth of student work to read, possibly necessitating the purchase of in-flight internet. And in between, I have fifteen hours of meetings to attend to discuss all that material I read on the way up.
Yet there still seems to be so much time. Long layovers in Dallas-Fort Worth, an evening on my own here, an unscheduled afternoon there. Spring break has given me a taste for those unbroken hours during which I can indulge my desire to overindulge on a book, a research project, a knitting odyssey. There may not be many of those periods during the next four days, but if I can grab even a taste of summer's leisurely pace, I'm going to enjoy it.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Realization
It happens every year around this time. February shoots past like the shortest month that it is, and I find myself a few short days away from March. March, when I need to have the family's tax information to our preparer. March, when my scholarly organization has its regional meeting -- a meeting for which I need to craft a treasurer's report, a business meeting agenda, and a slate of nominations for next year's officers. March, when 80 students will be interviewed for next year's incoming class. March, when the kids have both a school computer lab fundraiser and a Jump Rope for Heart event for which to solicit donations. (Both excellent causes. For the former, see me to buy Hershey's candy (local readers only). For the latter, donate online at Cady Gray's page or Archer's page (all readers welcome).)
February whizzed by in a blur of snow days, work crises, and a blessed (but deceptive) lack of deadlines. I anticipate that March will be one of the most productive months of my 2011. It's also going to be one of the most stressful. So much so that I'm thinking of starting on a few of these projects before the very last minute, something quite unheard of in my scheduling methodology. If I can get drafts of some of the stuff that's under my control underway before the stuff that's not under my control hits my inbox, I'll feel a lot more in control overall.
Not that anything can really help March. In a week, my head will be down and I'll be bulling through it, with only the hope that a little knitting and a lot of dreaming about April will see me through.
February whizzed by in a blur of snow days, work crises, and a blessed (but deceptive) lack of deadlines. I anticipate that March will be one of the most productive months of my 2011. It's also going to be one of the most stressful. So much so that I'm thinking of starting on a few of these projects before the very last minute, something quite unheard of in my scheduling methodology. If I can get drafts of some of the stuff that's under my control underway before the stuff that's not under my control hits my inbox, I'll feel a lot more in control overall.
Not that anything can really help March. In a week, my head will be down and I'll be bulling through it, with only the hope that a little knitting and a lot of dreaming about April will see me through.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Downward slope
I've always pictured weeks as ladders. Monday is at the bottom. You climb up to Sunday at the top, then plunge back down to start over.
So it's hard for me to really embrace the image of the downhill half of Noel's absence. We're past the halfway point, we survived a weekend, and now it's time to ping from school to work to clubs to lessons to home in the bumper-car ride of four weekdays until Noel arrives to put things back to normal.
But because I'm at the bottom of the ladder staring at an uphill week, I feel more like I'm not quite at my goal, rather than "time to coast until it's over." The mental image of climbing -- of having to get somewhere, and most of the work being ahead -- is unshakeable.
One reason I like weekends so much, though, is that I picture them at the very top of the ladder. Up there I'm basking in my achievement, I'm enjoying the view, I've arrived.
How do you visualize your weeks? Are they across, like a calendar, or vertical? Linear or circular? What day goes where? And how does it affect your overall sense of how time passes?
So it's hard for me to really embrace the image of the downhill half of Noel's absence. We're past the halfway point, we survived a weekend, and now it's time to ping from school to work to clubs to lessons to home in the bumper-car ride of four weekdays until Noel arrives to put things back to normal.
But because I'm at the bottom of the ladder staring at an uphill week, I feel more like I'm not quite at my goal, rather than "time to coast until it's over." The mental image of climbing -- of having to get somewhere, and most of the work being ahead -- is unshakeable.
One reason I like weekends so much, though, is that I picture them at the very top of the ladder. Up there I'm basking in my achievement, I'm enjoying the view, I've arrived.
How do you visualize your weeks? Are they across, like a calendar, or vertical? Linear or circular? What day goes where? And how does it affect your overall sense of how time passes?
Friday, August 20, 2010
Everybody's working for it
For years there was not an appreciable difference in mood between my weeks and my weekends. Other than my daily destinations -- office versus leisure centers -- I lived a very similar lifestyle no matter what day came up on the calendar. People who looked forward with rabid longing to the weekend, I regarded with bemusement.
Then I started the No-S Diet. Now I'm one of those woo-hoo weekend!!!1!! people I never understood before.
On the weekends I drink the diet soda that I love (and deny myself the rest of the week). On weekends I have dessert. It's not that I'm miserable during the week, when I drink unsweetened tea and refuse sweets. I don't feel an appreciable sense of deprivation or sacrifice. But oh, how I look forward to that first sip of Diet Coke and that first bite of chocolate.
The weekend now represents the opportunity to indulge myself. And I think that the difference between weekdays and weekends provides a pleasing contrast. Life should include tension and release, work and play, ordinary and special, workaday and indulgence. I find the movement between the two, mapped onto time in the distinction between weekday and weekend, exhilarating in a small, regular way. Those sips, those tastes, now are more precious and consequently more savored. The same is true of the time in which they are permissible.
Then I started the No-S Diet. Now I'm one of those woo-hoo weekend!!!1!! people I never understood before.
On the weekends I drink the diet soda that I love (and deny myself the rest of the week). On weekends I have dessert. It's not that I'm miserable during the week, when I drink unsweetened tea and refuse sweets. I don't feel an appreciable sense of deprivation or sacrifice. But oh, how I look forward to that first sip of Diet Coke and that first bite of chocolate.
The weekend now represents the opportunity to indulge myself. And I think that the difference between weekdays and weekends provides a pleasing contrast. Life should include tension and release, work and play, ordinary and special, workaday and indulgence. I find the movement between the two, mapped onto time in the distinction between weekday and weekend, exhilarating in a small, regular way. Those sips, those tastes, now are more precious and consequently more savored. The same is true of the time in which they are permissible.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Carving out time
Today was Day One of the Big Push. Between now and Friday, I have to prepare for two panel presentations and get everything set up for the business meeting at this weekend's conference. Meanwhile everything for my normal classes and administrative work has to get done -- or enough of it to stave off collapse.
But this afternoon I took about three hours away from that pursuit to do something I didn't absolutely have to do. When I think about how far I could have gotten on the existing deadlines in those three hours, I get a little queasy. I could have completed the more involved presentation, maybe. Or made sufficient notes for the less involved one plus get the business meeting agenda written up.
Instead I crafted a paper description and abstract based on some research I've been doing in my spare time since the beginning of the year, and submitted it to the American Academy of Religion annual meeting.
The deadline for paper proposals for this year's late October meeting was originally last week. But due to all the work days folks in the Northeast have lost to snow, the submission system stayed open an extra week. And as I so often do, I finally came up with an idea just a day or two before the deadline. I didn't know if the Call for Papers would yield a home for it, but I was lucky enough to find a close enough match between the proposals one of the many groups was soliciting and my idea.
Then it was a question of carving out the time needed to write the proposal. Three hours. I didn't go back to the office after my noon class, opting to stay outside in the spring-like weather (but within easy cell phone range if needed) and work through a first draft. That took almost two hours. Then a meeting intervened -- but only took a little more than half an hour instead of the hour I was expecting. I went back to the office to take a last pass through, pare the elements down to the specified character limit, and submit, a process that ate up the last hour of the three.
Chances are not good that I'll be accepted. Chances are not good that any particular proposal gets accepted, given the prestige of this meeting. I'm very lucky to have had a paper accepted a few years ago, and this proposal is in an entirely different area. Given all that, and given that I have obligations that I cannot avoid bearing down on me and requiring my attention, was it smart to use three hours of my limited remaining time to take a flyer?
If I hadn't, I'd have been forfeiting any chance (however remote) of getting on the program this fall. And those three hours are not time wasted in any case; they are time invested in building a framework for research I was going to do anyway. Now I'm three hours to the good in thinking through some of the ideas I have been mulling over and putting them down in a form that can guide me next time I pick up the project.
As long as I make the deadlines -- no matter how close I cut it -- I'll have no regrets.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
A period of mourning
Today is the last day.
Tomorrow students who have special jobs -- RA's, mentors, others with pre-class responsibilities -- will arrive on campus. Over the next couple of days the other 3,000 who live on campus will trickle in. And on Thursday classes start, and the sidewalks will be full of students once again.
So this is the last day of vacation, in a way. Of course, the Sunday after New Year's -- the day before I went back to work -- was also the last day of vacation, in a way. And Wednesday, the last day before classes begin, is another last day. There are plenty of chances to reminisce about the peace and quiet that's about the end.
There are plenty of reasons to look forward to normal academic life returning. I genuinely love my students and classes. I'm energized by the topics and discussions; I had a small taste of that teaching adult Christian education at church this morning, when three of my students showed up. And I'm anticipating some creative excitement around a new core course we're designing, to be implemented in the fall of 2011.
A wise person once observed to me that any change in one's life, no matter how thoroughly positive, is an occasion for mourning. There's always something lost in any change. I tend to cling obsessively to the things I lose when holiday periods end -- leisure time, opportunities for working on large or long-range projects, control over my schedule. Come the end of the semester, I'll be mourning the graduating students whom I'll never see in my classes again. For now, it's time to sigh longingly for the vacation time that's past and fret about the steady diet of work and responsibility ahead of me.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The return
Since we got back from our trip, I don't mind saying: I've been enjoying my home. Yes, you too, teetering stack of DVDs blocking my path! And you, barely functional curtains and carpets! It's so cold outside (snow on the ground this morning), and I've felt so displaced on our grand tour of the relatives, that I've just been reveling in the sensation of being stationary. I've sat on the couch, watched football and movies, played Wii with my children, and finished knitting a sweater.
And now normal life is about to return. I went back to work today, although it hardly counts as a normal day -- classes have yet to resume, and my boss wasn't in the office, so I had hours to myself to work on Huge Research Project and complete grade appeal reports.
Tomorrow we take yet another step back toward our usual schedules. The kids return to school, my boss comes back to the office. In another week or so, everything will be back in full swing -- more so, in a way, since I find myself back in charge of an enterprise I happily surrendered last year, adding one more responsibility to my load.
Leisure time gets pinched in normal life, of course. I get home later. My workout and subsequent shower cuts into the evening. I have to make lunches for the kids. TV, reading, and knitting time shrinks.
But for all that, things get done. Sometimes it seems that rest is hard to come by. I know that I'm lucky to have ample time to devote to my hobbies and passions, and to my family. I can't help looking forward, though, to the day a few months hence when the hours expand and the responsibilities diminish -- giving me time to recreate and renew myself.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Counting up
On Friday I'll be forty-four years old. Written out like that, it takes me aback just a little. That's a patently adult number. And outwardly at least, I may look like an adult. I have a mortgage, kids, cars, a job, positions of responsibility.
On the other hand, I didn't start my career until ten years ago. So I still feel quite junior in that respect. I'm still on my first home while many of my younger friends have traded up one or two times. I neglect important matters of health and money and preparing for the future all the time, matters that I tend to think more adult people take care of routinely.
The dirty little secret of being decidedly middle-aged, unable to be plausibly mistaken for young anymore, is that you don't feel as old as you look. Oh, maybe the eyes don't see small print anymore like they used to; maybe there are aches and twinges. But you remember what you used think separated the oldsters from the youngsters: the former claimed to know what they were doing.
At least in those terms, I still feel like a bumbling kid. But I also feel young in a more accomplished and positive way -- I'm still learning new things, and I'm excited about developing my skills in new directions. Working with college students helps; being a technophile helps; teaching in an academic unit that values initiative and innovation definitely helps. Becoming a knitter in my forties, gaining the ability to cloth and adorn myself and those I love and care for, makes me feel brand new in the world.
At times I know that I'm in the middle of my life, and heading towards the shorter end. Those are the times when I feel like my time is filling up and running out, when I see moments as precious and few rather than copious and abundant. But there are parts of my life with plans that keep burgeoning instead of fading into the distance. I may be solidly ensconced in my forties, but in some ways, I'm still climbing upwards and seeing more and more as I rise.
On the other hand, I didn't start my career until ten years ago. So I still feel quite junior in that respect. I'm still on my first home while many of my younger friends have traded up one or two times. I neglect important matters of health and money and preparing for the future all the time, matters that I tend to think more adult people take care of routinely.
The dirty little secret of being decidedly middle-aged, unable to be plausibly mistaken for young anymore, is that you don't feel as old as you look. Oh, maybe the eyes don't see small print anymore like they used to; maybe there are aches and twinges. But you remember what you used think separated the oldsters from the youngsters: the former claimed to know what they were doing.
At least in those terms, I still feel like a bumbling kid. But I also feel young in a more accomplished and positive way -- I'm still learning new things, and I'm excited about developing my skills in new directions. Working with college students helps; being a technophile helps; teaching in an academic unit that values initiative and innovation definitely helps. Becoming a knitter in my forties, gaining the ability to cloth and adorn myself and those I love and care for, makes me feel brand new in the world.
At times I know that I'm in the middle of my life, and heading towards the shorter end. Those are the times when I feel like my time is filling up and running out, when I see moments as precious and few rather than copious and abundant. But there are parts of my life with plans that keep burgeoning instead of fading into the distance. I may be solidly ensconced in my forties, but in some ways, I'm still climbing upwards and seeing more and more as I rise.
Friday, June 5, 2009
When your working days are through
I really look forward to weekends this days. To a ridiculous degree, really.
It's not that work is so bad. In fact, it's quite flexible, often creative, and (in the summer at least) low-stress. It's just that weekend things are extra-special.
What are weekend things? Well, there's the pleasure of consuming items that are forbidden under my No-S Diet. Sodas, mainly. That first cola of the weekend is something I look forward to, way too much. And chocolate. That food and drink that I enjoy so much -- it's a big reason I approach every weekend with delight and anticipation.
Then there's sleeping late. I only get one morning of sleeping past 7 am every week: Saturday. Noel gets Sunday. On Friday night I stay up extra late, I read as long as I want, and then when Archer bursts into our room in the morning with his usual, "Mom and Dad, it's time to get up," I turn over and close my eyes again. I really love sleeping. So an extra couple of hours of sleep is a rare and wonderful pleasure.
If there's something in theaters that we want to see, we get a babysitter and go out for a date night of dinner and a movie. Actually having a conversation that lasts longer than thirty seconds feels quite indulgent.
And usually Noel takes the kids somewhere for most of an afternoon, leaving me the house to myself. I use that time either to knit or to organize my knitting stuff. That doesn't sound very exciting, I know, but it represents something I do just for me, just because it brings me joy and makes me feel creative, productive, and in control. I treasure those hours and try to make the most of them.
If you're young, single, childless, and ambitious, this might sound truly sad. Is this all I have in life? Do I slave away all week over a hot dry-erase board just for a few extra hours of sleep and knitting on the couch?
But it all means a lot more than it did just a few years ago. The routine of child care, work, and self-discipline is unsustainable without built-in respites. Conscious enjoyment of those breaks gives life a shape, time an arc. I feel deep happiness in those days and moments of pure indulgence.
It's not that work is so bad. In fact, it's quite flexible, often creative, and (in the summer at least) low-stress. It's just that weekend things are extra-special.
What are weekend things? Well, there's the pleasure of consuming items that are forbidden under my No-S Diet. Sodas, mainly. That first cola of the weekend is something I look forward to, way too much. And chocolate. That food and drink that I enjoy so much -- it's a big reason I approach every weekend with delight and anticipation.
Then there's sleeping late. I only get one morning of sleeping past 7 am every week: Saturday. Noel gets Sunday. On Friday night I stay up extra late, I read as long as I want, and then when Archer bursts into our room in the morning with his usual, "Mom and Dad, it's time to get up," I turn over and close my eyes again. I really love sleeping. So an extra couple of hours of sleep is a rare and wonderful pleasure.
If there's something in theaters that we want to see, we get a babysitter and go out for a date night of dinner and a movie. Actually having a conversation that lasts longer than thirty seconds feels quite indulgent.
And usually Noel takes the kids somewhere for most of an afternoon, leaving me the house to myself. I use that time either to knit or to organize my knitting stuff. That doesn't sound very exciting, I know, but it represents something I do just for me, just because it brings me joy and makes me feel creative, productive, and in control. I treasure those hours and try to make the most of them.
If you're young, single, childless, and ambitious, this might sound truly sad. Is this all I have in life? Do I slave away all week over a hot dry-erase board just for a few extra hours of sleep and knitting on the couch?
But it all means a lot more than it did just a few years ago. The routine of child care, work, and self-discipline is unsustainable without built-in respites. Conscious enjoyment of those breaks gives life a shape, time an arc. I feel deep happiness in those days and moments of pure indulgence.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Rich in time
Grandparents are on their way back to Virginia. Kids are in school and daycare. Classes have begun, thrusting me back into the realm of individual effort (my classes, my students) rather than the teamwork of the summer (our conference, our policies).
And that means a sudden increase in the amount of time I have to spend on the projects on my plate. A whole evening to watch TV and knit, not just the time after we're done with our Rummikub game. Two hours in the office (with students coming by occasionally) to monkey with the syllabus and assignment info I'm putting up online. Even half an hour to write a long e-mail to Jane about the summer.
Looked at from the right angle, an hour spent in a training lecture is a few good ideas and four inches of the lace pattern on my ELBS. A none-too-exciting thesis presentation is a me-myself-and-I brainstorming session for the mission statement we've been hashing out. I can multitask in most situations -- the only exceptions being in class and in one-on-one meetings with students.
What's often missing is a long enough block of time to play around with something, to follow a train of thought, to work through a problem from issue to solution. I had stretches this summer where that was the norm, because nobody was in the office but me -- but I also didn't have immediate tasks demanding my attention that focused me. Now I have both tasks and time. Strange that I have that feeling on the first day of classes, the moment where one expects the schedule to get unmanageable.
My biggest task for the night is to decide what sock pattern to cast on next. It won't last, but a moment to breathe is as welcome as the flowers in spring.
Next week: Dinner at work two nights out of five! Wait, what was this entry about?
And that means a sudden increase in the amount of time I have to spend on the projects on my plate. A whole evening to watch TV and knit, not just the time after we're done with our Rummikub game. Two hours in the office (with students coming by occasionally) to monkey with the syllabus and assignment info I'm putting up online. Even half an hour to write a long e-mail to Jane about the summer.
Looked at from the right angle, an hour spent in a training lecture is a few good ideas and four inches of the lace pattern on my ELBS. A none-too-exciting thesis presentation is a me-myself-and-I brainstorming session for the mission statement we've been hashing out. I can multitask in most situations -- the only exceptions being in class and in one-on-one meetings with students.
What's often missing is a long enough block of time to play around with something, to follow a train of thought, to work through a problem from issue to solution. I had stretches this summer where that was the norm, because nobody was in the office but me -- but I also didn't have immediate tasks demanding my attention that focused me. Now I have both tasks and time. Strange that I have that feeling on the first day of classes, the moment where one expects the schedule to get unmanageable.
My biggest task for the night is to decide what sock pattern to cast on next. It won't last, but a moment to breathe is as welcome as the flowers in spring.
Next week: Dinner at work two nights out of five! Wait, what was this entry about?
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