Let the circle be unbroken

Last year a student came to me for help in forming a knitting club for the Honors College. This student, who happens to be from Japan, knew that a growing number of her peers were knitting and crocheting, and that many more were expressing interest in learning.

I thought it was a great idea -- what knitter wouldn't want a knitting circle started in her workplace? But something was standing in the way. It's just my own neurosis, I'm sure, but I couldn't start the group until we had a good name. Luckily a student suggested Knitwise. Perfect -- now we could move forward.

We've had a great semester in Knitwise. A number of people have stopped by to learn how to knit, and then become regulars at our Thursday afternoon meetings. I've seen students go from never having handled needles, to making useful (and beautiful) objects. I've seen students become almost as obsessed with knitting as I am. And other students have become the teachers and mentors of the group. Still others stop in from time to time to revive their skills or just socialize.

I have big plans for this group. I'd like to bring in guests for demonstrations; run workshops to teach techniques; work together on charity projects; introduce them to Ravelry. But all of that can wait. Right now we're all just plopping down on couches, talking yarn and needles and hooks, discussing projects, helping each other with finishing, complimenting progress, oohing and ahhing over the astonishing work we're producing. It's quite enough to share that with a few students, adding stitch by stitch to my own projects, and dreaming about the power of one crafter added to another and to another. About the circle creating, expanding, developing its own gravity, and spreading change one beautiful, functional, warm object at a time.

Found in translation

It's been a cold, wet week. My spirits haven't been at their highest; my energy level has taken a hit. But life got a little brighter when a friend pointed out that you can change Facebook's settings to communicate with you in "English (Pirate)."

Not everyone appreciates the delightful practice of sprinkling one's discourse with "scurvy dogs," "keelhaul the landlubber," and "by Davy Jones' locker." But someone at Facebook certainly does. Switch your language to piratical and your posts become your scribblin's, events become grog fests, and the help command becomes "Mayday!"

The transformation is disturbingly thorough. Instead of viewing pictures of yourself contributed by others, you "spy me bewitched portraits." I'm not married to Noel Murray, I'm anchored to him. Status updates are timestamped "12 shots of rum ago" or "'bout 5 turns o' t' hourglass ago" (and in my case, they're "fired from" Ping.fm). And instead of liking a posted item, you click "Arrr, this be pleasin' to me eye."

Best of all, the e-mails you get from "Ye olde Facebook" don't alert you to friend requests or comments on your status updates; they convey demands for you to be mateys and ask that you confirm that ye sailed with the potential hearty, and let you know that somebody flapped their gums about one o' your recent tales.

Even more than the inventiveness and comprehensiveness of the translation, I meditate on the creative labor involved. Somebody, or a few somebodies, channeled a heck of a lot of pirate in programming the makeover. It warms my cockles that such transcendently useless labor still has a place. Although I suppose it's not surprising that the place is Facebook.

Whistle while you work

My office can only be entered by going through a main reception area and a small work/copy room. In a way, my office is part of the main office for my department. It doesn't have a separate door that opens onto a hallway.

That may be why I rarely play music while I work. If I'm in the office on a holiday or when there are very few other people around, I'll fire up the iPod on the computer speakers. If I need to watch a YouTube video, I'll stick headphones into the computer. But generally I work in silence. It rarely occurs to me to listen to music. I work with one ear cocked to the murmur of conversation outside my door, from staff to students to other faculty coming in and out, faxing things, using the copier, asking questions, getting their mail.

There's something private -- or maybe the word is "indulgent" -- about having a soundtrack for one's work. In an office setting, knocking on the door or walking into the room and having to pause while the person turns down the volume or takes out the earbuds, gives me the feeling of having intruded on a personal moment.

Worse, though, is being intruded upon. Invariably when I've put my earbuds on to listen to a podcast or hear the sound to a video, someone pokes their head through my door and asks me a question. Sitting with my back to them, facing the computer screen, it's not immediately obvious to my visitor that I'm in a different sonic landscape. I have to click pause and pull out the earbuds before turning around to ask them to repeat themselves, a process that takes a few seconds. In that time it's become clear that they've mistaken my availability, and there's an embarrassed moment as they apologize, and as I assume the attitude that I was perfectly justified to be watching that Lady Gaga video. (Seriously, it was for a discussion about Nietzsche.)

My work soundtrack is work itself, and that sets me apart, I imagine, from my A.V. Club colleagues. What about you?

There's a chill

This morning when I awoke, the temperature was sixty degrees. It was spitting rain, so Archer's running club was canceled. By noon a chilly wind was forcing everyone to clasp their jackets tight across their bodies.

A cold front rolled through during the day. One of Cady Gray's teachers observed, to her amusement, that it was fall in the morning and winter in the afternoon. (I had to explain to her that she didn't mean it literally.)

Even when the seasons change as gradually as they possibly can, there's always a moment where it happens far too suddenly, and you aren't ready. I had my warmest, softest sweater, but I was wishing for a hat and scarf. The gray skies and persistent mist made me feel even colder, and I cursed the crisp fall weather than seemed to have deserted me without warning.

The sudden cold has its good side, though. All at once you're reminded of how wonderful it is to walk into a warm house, or to feel the heat starting to seep up from the floorboards of a car. I had moments today when I fantasized about starting up the fireplace. But then again, I was reminded that the last time we had a fire going it, it was because the heater had conked out. Time to call the man so that I won't have to wear those warm sweaters indoors this season.

By any other name

Every few days, I spend half an hour or so welcoming newcomers to Ravelry. I've been a volunteer on the Ravelry Welcome Wagon for almost two years. The job involves sending personalized messages to everyone who has joined the site in the last few days -- in my case, everyone who chose a username beginning with G. (That's how the Wagoneers divide up labor.)

As I go through the list, I type a lot of names into my personalized message. And it's interesting what people choose to represent themselves. Since I welcome the G names, I see a lot of variations on Grandma (g-ma, granny, gran, etc.), often with a name or a number of grandchildren attached. I see many usernames that start with "girl" or "grrl."

Names run in cycles, of course. Not many people my age and younger have my name; it seems to have been popular in the generation just previous to mine. I watch popular names come and go as cohorts of students arrive in my classes. Monica was popular eighteen years ago, and Ashley has been big for half a decade now.

My name is dear to me because it's based on my father's name. I use some form of it as my username on most sites -- but not on Ravelry. When I got my invitation (you needed one back then), I spent several agonizing minutes trying to figure out the perfect username to present myself to my fellow knitters. I finally settled on my favorite fictional character. And I've tremendously enjoyed answering to that name.

What name would you choose if you could? What name do you choose when you have the chance?

Under the weather

I've been vaguely sick ever since I got back from Washington, D.C. It's just a cold, and not even a bad one at that. But it just keeps moving around, from the top of my head at first, now to just inside my throat.

When I have a cold, I get really, really hungry. I feel like eating all the time, and the only thing that makes me feel halfway normal is if I'm full. Not surprisingly, I get tired easily, and want to curl up in bed for long hours. And nothing feels better than a hot shower.

Thankfully, I haven't been so uncomfortable that it's stopped me for a second doing what my work, either here or away. But that in itself has worn me down. I'm ready for some down time. Yet I spent the day on stage, teaching my part-time Methodist pastors. It was wonderful, but I'm exhausted. My energy is drained.

It would be nice to have a sick day -- a "bed day," we call them in this house. If my throat and head feel any worse, I might find a way to take one. It's been ages since I've canceled class because of illness; I just don't get sick that often. But is that a license to take a mental health day when I don't absolutely have to? Additionally, Noel has been on point for more than two weeks, taking care of kids and home while I've flown around North America. He deserves a vacation more than I do.

But you can't always control where your stress comes from. I've enjoyed myself tremendously over the last few weeks, but it's as if I've had no days off; every day has been work. Yes, you could look at what I've done and argue that it shouldn't have taken so much out of me, but the fact is, I'm run down. How much relaxation and recuperation can I build into the next few weeks -- the last of the semester, and the beginning of the holidays?

True love

I brought Cady Gray a present from my Montreal trip -- a plush Quatchi, the sasquatch in the trio of mascots for the Vancouver Olympics.



As is her wont when presented with new stuffed animals, Cady Gray loved Quatchi immediately. She embraced him, presented him to her dad, and professed her desire to sleep with him always "because I only sleep with my best friends."

Today she took Quatchi to school for show-and-tell. If I gather correctly, she mentioned that he is from "Vancouver Olympics 2010," that he's a sasquatch wearing earmuffs, and that her mom brought him home from Canada.

But love is pleasure mixed with pain, as we all know. There came the inevitable evening, the night after Cady Gray and Quatchi first met, when the little girl came padding out of her bedroom half an hour after lights out. She hesitated before telling us what she wanted; "Just say it," her dad urged. Her face crumpled in on itself and her voice rose to a wail: "I can't FIND QUATCHI!"

We immediately comforted her and located her little friend kicked under the bed. But even if he'd been gone forever, better to have loved and lost a sasquatch than never to have loved a sasquatch at all.

I'll take the bus this time

Tonight I shepherded twenty students down to Little Rock to attend a lecture by Joel Salatin, renegade farmer. The lecture was plenty entertaining, and the students were enthusiastic. But riding back on the bus in the dark, all I could think about was the feeling of the many bus rides I took when I was their age and younger.

The rattle and the darkness, the roar of the engine, took me back immediately to bus trips like the ones I took during winter break with the fellow members of my high school glee club. Driving through the long dark evenings from stop to stop, sitting with my best friends, listening to my Walkman, and staring out at the night ... it's an indelible feeling of being alone with my thoughts.

I've always been able to hypnotize myself by unfocusing my eyes and letting the moving scenery outside a car window blur into impressionist colors. At night, though, I follow lights, idly wondering what they are or making tentative identifications. Meditating on the moment's emotions, I feel like a teenager again, the owner of a rich inner life unknown to those whose cars and houses, twinkling with light, I pass.

It's a strange feeling to return to that immature -- yet deeply felt -- stage. I'm reminded that having a rich inner life is also about doubting yourself, not knowing who you are. But retreating into reverie while riding through the night is a pleasant fantasy, an escape to a time at once simpler and much more complicated.

Real life

The A.V. Club's best of the decade coverage kicks off this week with television lists spearheaded by my very own husband. I contributed to some of the lists, but not the one on reality shows that Noel produced solo, running today.

The comments on this list have been particularly interesting. Earlier lists focused on miniseries and late-night television, but the reality show list has provoked protests that reality television is not worthy of critical attention or celebration.

Reality television is truly the genre of the decade, and yes, there's a case to be made that it's the scourge of the medium as well. But are we still so bitter about the decline of scripted television that we can't recognize some of the more interesting, creative, and even compelling reality series? I find myself talking to many of my colleagues and other educated people about popular culture, and among those who admit to watching television, most express great surprise that I would enjoy Top Chef or The Amazing Race.

The opposite is true among professional TV watchers, who recognize these shows as the class of the genre. Even some of them, though, scorn the talent competitions and offbeat follow-people-around shows as unworthy of consideration.

Me, I'll take drama, comedy, pathos, and entertainment where I can find it, and even though reality television has a tendency toward manufacturing all those elements when they're not actually happening in front of the camera, that doesn't mean that nothing of interest happens on those shows. To the contrary, I enjoy cheering for actual competent people doing things that I can't do (as on the cooking and fashion designing shows, for example), and I enjoy gasping at the machinations of people scheming to be the last ones standing on the Survivor-type shows. Yes, I'm as disgusted as anyone by the whoring-after-fame that proliferates among the would-be celebrities that apply for some of the shows, both reputable and sleazy. But as Noel points out in his piece, many of these shows represent the last vestige of a mass medium that actually unites us as a contrary, something everyone has an opinion on, weekly events that leave you out of the water-cooler conversation if you choose to forgo them. And it's hard to overestimate the power of that possibility in an increasingly fractured media landscape.

Breaking through

When I went online to check in for my flight to Montreal, the site flagged my return itinerary as problematic. "The schedule of your flights has changed, and you may miss your connection," a yellow warning box asserted, and the layover time in Cincinnati was highlighted -- arrive at 4:05, leave at 4:55. I couldn't figure out how a fifty-minute layover could be a problem, so I ignored it.

But when I got to Montreal I realized that the problem might be customs. If I had to clear immigration before getting on the connecting flight, fifty minutes might not be enough. So I called the airline on Saturday morning from the hotel, and changed the itinerary; now I was flying to Atlanta instead of Cincinnati, and the layover was eighty minutes.

This morning when I got to the airport, the agent at the check-in counter noticed that the itinerary had changed, and asked why. I explained about the customs issue, and she noted, as she gave me my boarding passes, that I would actually go through customs right there in Montreal before I got on my first flight. I hadn't needed to make the change at all.

And I was flying into Atlanta now -- Atlanta, where the torrential rain ahead of Tropical Storm Ida was falling. The weather was horrendous as we landed, with rain, wind, and low dark clouds. I found my next flight on the monitors: already delayed forty-five minutes. And the board was full of canceled and delayed notices.

But I saw that the previous flight to Little Rock, the one that was supposed to have left thirty minutes earlier, was listed as "At Gate." It was all the way at the other end of the terminal, but I thought it was worth a shot. The flight was boarding as I got to the counter, and I managed to get the busy agent to put me on the standby list. Ten minutes later, I was walking onto the flight -- thirty minutes before my original flight was supposed to leave.

The ascent through the storm was long and dark. For three quarters of an hour, we bumped along in a constant cloud. I was knitting my Noro socks and listening to my iPod on shuffle. Finally I heard some familiar electronic noise -- the opening to ELO's "Shine A Little Love." As those dramatic, joyful chords began the song, we burst out of the clouds into the brilliant sunshine, a rosy-tinged afternoon sliding toward evening. It was a perfect ending to the day, a private panorama in my ears and my eyes, a little something just for me, like so many of the pleasures of solitary travel.

A late hour

The night is late, the parties have been many, the kindness of my colleagues has been infinite in returning me safely to my bed. They have my gratitude.

Tomorrow I will make my way to the airport and God willing, to home. I am reminded how much we depend on the kindness of strangers to overlook our faults and errors, and point us in the right direction, along the way. Thank God for travelers' mercies, and I hope I will be embracing my children before I next write to you. Bon voyage, all you AAR travelers!

Mastery

I enjoy feeling competent. I think that I get the biggest kick out of life when I'm able to perform some relatively complex task ably and well.

Being at the American Academy of Religion conference sometimes scratches my competence itch. I generally know what people are talking about at the sessions I attend, something I could not have asserted reliably a decade ago. I have gotten plenty of positive feedback about my leadership and administrative capabilities since I joined the board of directors, and that makes me get the competence buzz when I negotiate some complex issue or contribute to the governance conversation.

Yesterday morning I began the day with a call to Delta reservations because my connection heading home via Cincinnati was a little too tight for comfort, given the need to clear customs and immigrations before boarding the next flight. Before I knew it, I had a new itinerary with a more generous time allowance. Even though I didn't do anything but call a number and explain my problem, that made me feel like an adult who knew how to handle these kinds of situations.

And after a day riding the Metro, and a subsequent day walking back and forth from hotel to convention center to other hotel via both surface streets and the Montreal Underground City, I feel the glow of competence suffusing my being. I look like a Canadian, I flatter myself, in my chunky knit accessories and practical boots. And I walk with the purposeful stride of a native through the twists and turns of the shopping centers, subway stations, and building basements that comprise the underground labyrinth connecting the whole central city.

I suppose that reveals my implicit standard of competence: native fluency. In some ways I've spent my life trying to move from the outside looking in, to some reasonable approximation of the mannerisms, and some reasonable claim to the privileges of, the native. I'm just an animal looking for a home. And it gives me inordinate pleasure to be home, or to pass for someone who is at home, in a city, a school of thought, a discipline, a community.

Montreal yarn crawl

I attended an (ungodly) 7:30 am breakfast meeting this morning, and after that was done, it hit me: Today was the day. Many stores are closed Monday, some are also closed on Sunday. If I were going to canvas the yarn stores of Montreal, it had to be today.

So at 9:30 am, after returning to the hotel to grab my scribbled directions and gird up my loins generally, I was off. My goal: Five yarn stores and back by 4 pm for the first plenary panel of the conference.

My first stop was Effiloché, a lovely and welcoming store that just happened to open earlier than any of the others. I inaugurated my souvenir purchases with a locally-dyed yarn: Tanis Fiber Arts Blue Label fingering weight in an appropriate overcast Moss colorway. (No pictures because at this point I hadn't remembered my determination to take them.)

Next on my list was A La Tricoteuse Laine, a well-ordered store tailored more for buying than browsing or socializing. There I bought Les Laines Oberlyn, a Quebecois DK weight in a rich red.

On the way back to the Metro I entered a monastery chapel where mass was underway; several nuns and monks made their way back to where I was standing and offered me the peace.

Stop #3: Tricot Quartier. I walked about a kilometer down beautiful wide streets in an upscale neighborhood before finding this storefront in a walkup. Not enough luxury sock yarn to pique my interest, really, but I left with some Regia Hand-Dyed Effekt.







I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to Ariadne Knits, a friendly place where a carding class was in full swing when I entered. My selection was a couple of skeins of O-Wool Classic 2-Ply in a cheerful green. (The staff was equally as friendly when I had to return 30 minutes later because I'd left my camera in the store.)






And my last stop, perhaps the most impressive yarn store I visited in Montreal, Mouliné. The staff chatted knowledgeably about Ravelry, the stock was mind-boggling, and I came away with a Crazy Zauerball in addition to the Malabrigo Sock I had already settled on.

Now that the yarn crawl is out of the way, it's all business from here on out. But what a way to begin -- a cold day, a Metro ride all over town and back, knitters and knitwear everywhere you turn, and beautiful yarn both local and imported from far-flung lands. Merci, Montreal!

Net work

It's becoming easier for me, this cocktail party chatter. Ten years ago I would have dreaded going to a party with a lot of people I barely know. What would we talk about? Wouldn't I be exposed as a fraud, someone who didn't deserve to be honored with the same faculty title as those around me? I felt sorry for those who tried to make conversation with me. I was ill at ease, and I tried too hard.

In five minutes I'm going upstairs for the last of three parties tonight. Yes, I know the people at these parties -- some of them, anyway -- better than I would have many years ago, when I was just starting to travel in these circles. But I wouldn't call very many of them friends. The party I'm about to attend is likely to be full of strangers. But I'm not disinclined to go. I feel confident that I can listen well and speak appropriately. I think I can strike a balance between talking about myself and being interested in those I talk to.

Somewhere along the line I crossed a barrier between introvert and extrovert. I miss that woman who used to seek out solitude and avoid unstructured social encounters ... not that much, but I do miss her. Now I'm a social butterfly. I stride fearlessly into the room, accept my drink, and even give out the cheek-kisses of a class to which I never aspired. I'd be a stranger to my younger self. And that stranger is off to mingle now. Ciao!

The road

I spent the day traveling again, thankfully without incident, from Little Rock to Cincinnati to Montreal. Once I got here at about 6 pm local time, I jumped right into meetings until 10 pm. I've got a cold, my circadian rhythms are all screwed up thanks to having dinner at 9 pm, and my head is whirling with all the politics of the two groups with which I met this evening.

But when I got back to my room, I found my center again. Because next to my computer, right where I'd unpacked it, was the bookmark Cady Gray made for me to bring along.

It says:

Go!

Mom

Go!

#1

Mom

Mom

Rocks!

Mom's

are

Great!

and on the back:

Donna

[drawing of me with my arms emerging from around the bottom of my rib cage]

My

mom

looks

like

this.

Donna

Bowma

n

What else does a person need to get up in the morning?

Ah, shoe

I was in the library this afternoon checking out a few books and chatting with the librarians. "You gonna take these with you?" one of them joked. "Thought I might," I answered. "I once bought a pair of shoes," he mused in reply, "and the salesmen asked, 'You wanna spote 'em or tote 'em?"

That got me started thinking about a weird aspect of buying shoes -- namely, putting your old shoes into the new shoes' box and carrying them out of the store. Does anybody else fill a slight twinge of wrongness about tossing your used, scuffed shoes -- the ones you came in to replace, maybe -- in that shoebox? It's a moment where things are not only out of place or reversed, but where the superseded item somehow insists on remaining with you. By all rights, those shoes should be carried quietly to a disposal unit behind the store -- some of us would be willing to pay a fee for the service, like when you get your oil changed -- but no. Instead, there you are carrying them out of the store as if they were the item you just bought, masquerading as a purchase you're proud of, while the new shoes on your feet do their utilitarian job.

Actually, it's never easy to know what to do with shoes that have outlasted their welcome. I have shoes that don't fit anymore, shoes that have lost their luster, piled in a corner of my closet. I've dropped them off at Goodwill with other clothes, but I've never felt good about it. Shoes are personal. Shoes take on the shape of your feet. Used shoes seem like an abomination. But I can't bring myself to throw them away, either. Why should items that have served you so well, crafted leather and stitched rubber, end up in a landfill?

How do you deal with old shoes?

Already?

I just got home, and yet I have to pack tomorrow to leave again. Montreal's forecast is for highs in the forties with some snow showers. Here we have highs in the sixties and seventies with brilliant sunshine.

The three days between arriving and leaving again are filled with laundry, work, and trying to cram in as much quality time with the kids as possible. Cady Gray and I crafted and cooked together this afternoon. Now I'm watching Archer play Mario Super Sluggers. As soon as I'm done with my evening workout, I'll be writing about So You Think You Can Dance for two hours. Make lunches, sleep, wake up, go to running club with Archer, go to work, come home and do it all again -- but for the last time this week.

The trip coming up will have a completely different feeling than the one I just completed. In Washington I was part of a large contingent, constantly with my colleagues. I'll be traveling to Montreal alone, spending the first day and a half locked in a room with my fellow directors, but then left mostly to my own devices. There's much work to be done, both at the conference and to keep up with things at home. But my time will mostly be my own. So if I come home behind, unfulfilled, dissatisfied, I'll have no one to blame but myself.

Running with Archer

In the half hour before the school bell rings, Mrs. Miller, the physical education teacher at our local elementary school, convenes a group of kids -- and a few moms -- on the 1/12 mile track next to the teachers' parking lot. It's time for the first meeting of EXCEL, the school's running club, and I'm one of those few moms in a sea of third and fourth graders.

Archer has indicated his desire to join. The aim of the club is to work toward a 5K run in the spring. I'm happy he wants to belong, even though I'm pretty sure the desire stems from his interest in time and distance rather than any yen for physical activity.

Today, Mrs. Miller announces, we'll do a few stretches then run or walk around the track at our own pace. In subsequent meetings, the kids will be divided by ability to work in groups.

After I acquaint Archer with the concept of inside and outside lanes (run on the inside, walk on the outside), we get underway, surrounded by dozens of chattering, zooming kids. Archer starts his chronograph and gives me periodic updates. We walk a lap, then run two, starting a pattern.

I'm surprised at how animated Archer is. He loudly proclaims that he's running at a steady pace, while his delight tends to make his arms and legs flail somewhat as he jogs. He names some of his classmates; a few greet him as they pass, and one stays to talk to us. I adopt Archer's terminology of a "heart meter" (like in the Wii Fit Plus cycling activity) to describe how fatigued we feel -- three hearts for full strength, one heart for running out of energy -- and use it to quiz Michael, the classmate, about how he's doing. Archer calls out cheery greetings to his former first grade teacher as we pass her on the track.

There's a social element to this club that I hadn't expected. As Archer reports lap times and distance traveled, he's contributing information that's relevant to the activity. He's engaged with other kids doing the same thing but for their own reasons -- girls walking together in clumps gossiping, boys racing down the backstretch, teachers responding to their charges.

We can't make Archer into someone with the easy ability to carry on those kind of conversations. But we can put him in situations where he's in the same space, doing the same thing. That's a kind of connection. And from his enthusiastic response, it's not just the activity and its accompanying numerical scales that delight him, but the sense of community and belonging. Even if he doesn't know how to respond to that in a conventional way -- that is, by joining in on their terms or by welcoming them into his -- he's happy to be with them, to be part of it all. It's a start.

Almost home

Even the easiest travels can take a lot out of you. The weariness grows exponentially when there are problems -- cancellations, rebooking, standby, missed connections, delays.

Yet at some point you're so grateful that you're going to make it home at last, that all the issues and frustrations become small in comparison.

Right now I'm sitting in the Little Rock airport -- ironically half an hour earlier than I was originally scheduled to arrive -- waiting for my colleague who's giving me a ride home. He ended up on a later flight after our plane out of DC got canceled, leading to a flurry of rebooking. On the bright side, we all ended up in first class for the 757 we took from DC to Atlanta an hour later than planned. On the down side, we weren't sure we would get on our flights to Little Rock since we didn't have seat assignments at the time of rebooking.

We got separated in Atlanta, and I snagged a seat on the earlier flight. So there's nothing for it but to take advantage of some free wi-fi. Everything's closed here at 8 pm; only two more planes are scheduled to land. The only sound is the TV in the bar showing the World Series game.

Once my colleagues show up, we'll have to wait for their bags, then drive back to Conway. I'll be home just in time to take a shower and go to bed in preparation for taking Archer to school early tomorrow for the first meeting of his running club. Then there's a full day of classes and meetings at school, culminating in a film I'm showing in the evening. Two days later, I'm on the road again.

All I can really look forward to is checking in with students and family, shaving a bit off the mountain of work these trips are causing me to miss, and then putting everything on hold once again. I'm halfway through these two weeks of intensive travel, and I can take pride in the great work we did at the conference just concluded -- including the half-day workshop we led for about 30 faculty and administrators this morning. Getting back to normal will be a chore just as daunting as any of the preparation and execution of these trips has been.

A grand day out

Yes, I realize I've already used this title for a blog post. After several years you start to cycle back around.

Today I had no obligatory engagements until 4:00 pm. What a luxury -- a free day in a wonderful city! I slept late (under strict orders from my husband) and then went to the National Mall to stroll through a museum. Ninety minutes in the American History Museum (newly reopened!) was not nearly enough, and I wished my kids could be there to play in the super-cool SparkLab.

But I didn't want to miss the chance to visit an LYS -- Stitch DC in their Capitol Hill location, where I picked up some long-desired Spud & Chloe Sweater and some Punta Merisock -- have lunch at a local eatery (Matchbox), and meet some DC knitters. I crashed a regular meetup of Columbia Heights knitters at a Starbucks. We knit and gabbed for more than an hour, causing a nearby tween to ask her mother, eyes all agog, how she could learn to do that. Then I navigated the streets and Metro back to the hotel to hear my colleagues and students present an inspirational portrait of their program for academicailly at-risk middle-schoolers.

These days of sightseeing and leisure during conferences or business trips -- they're like a dream. When they're done, responsibility reasserts itself so thoroughly that you wonder if your time spent wandering the city was ever real. Tomorrow I'll be up before the sun to set up a workshop that we're confident will change the minds and lives of 53 faculty and administrators. Before the day is out I'll be home unpacking and thinking about the class I have to teach on Monday. Life moves quickly, and the moments that don't, seem like they were spent in some alternate universe.

Under the wire

It's almost midnight Eastern time, pretty late for the day's post, but even though it's been a very long day I'm still up planning for a bit of leisure tomorrow. And given the late hour, that day might get a late start; one of the most decadent luxuries of any trip is a few hours extra sleep in the morning. I might miss the free conference breakfast, but I doubt I'll be too late in rising and getting underway for just a smidgen of sightseeing.

Right now I'm browsing the Smithsonian website to see if there are any can't-miss exhibitions in town. I'll probably end up going to the newly reopened American History Museum, but my mind keeps going back to the last time I was in DC for the AAR's annual meeting ... the Dead Sea Scrolls were at the Sackler Gallery, and what an amazing experience to be in the presence of those fragments.

I'm hoping to meet a few area Ravelers at their usual Saturday knitting haunt out in Columbia Heights, but I'll have to hop back to the hotel in the late afternoon for a presentation by my colleagues and students. Then I've got dinner plans with an old friend before coming back to the hotel, setting the clock back, and thanking the Lord for that extra hour of sleep given the early start time for our post-conference workshop on technology in honors education (7:30 am).

Tonight a dozen alumni and a few of their significant others met us at a Georgetown restaurant for dinner. It was an astounding group of successful people -- aspiring judges, non-profit sector advocates, teachers, programmers, embassy personnel ... you name it, some UCA Honors graduate was in DC doing it. I was over the moon with happiness, laughing with some of my favorite people on earth, and simply bowled over by the powerful community collected from many different graduating classes, majors, backgrounds, and aspirations, all unified by their passage through our program and their destination here in the center of American citizenship.

It hasn't been easy doing what we do for the last year or so. But look here -- just look what we did. There couldn't have been a better time for that reminder.

The corridors of power

... or at least the Sports Bar of Tourism. After a full day of travel, I arrived with my faculty colleagues and several students in Washington, DC for the NCHC conference.

It's good to get away. I was surprised by how free and energized I felt walking through the Atlanta airport. Outside the sun was shining, and having left behind forecasts for a two-day deluge and rainclouds hiding the tops of Little Rock's meager skyline, the glimpses of daylight felt like an illicit peek behind the curtain into an alternate universe.

All the planes were on time, and I got to try out my first airplane wi-fi on the second leg. (I used it to investigate a student's problem getting to a reading online, and inform another that she didn't manage to complete an application for a teaching assistantship.) Safely checked into our hotel in unexpectedly balmy DC, we all retired to the sports bar to watch the first few innings of the World Series game.

Tomorrow will be a long slog; I'm presiding at one presentation, assisting on another, and attending two more to support colleagues. We have a meeting with area alumni set up for the evening hours. I know I'll be happy to crawl into bed at the end of the day and breathe a sigh of relief.

But right now I'm relaxing and sending all my love home to Noel and the kids, battened down in central Arkansas. I'm already looking forward to being home, my sweets, but I'm going to make the most of being here.

To the Capitol

The first of two extended weekend trips for me starts tomorrow. I'll be fleeing the state ahead of another long series of rainstorms, and I feel a little guilty about that; everyone in my town -- and my state -- is sick of rain. At least the rain will catch up to me in Washington, D.C. by the time I leave on Sunday.

First stop is the National Collegiate Honors Council annual meeting, and it's going to be a long, busy slog. I have two presentations in which I'm participating on Friday, one as lead presenter, and a couple of others that I'm committed to attend. We're meeting up with a dozen or so alumni who live in the area that night. Saturday is a bit more relaxed, and then Sunday we're leading a half-day workshop on technology in honors education before finally heading home.

Between this and my trip to Montreal next weekend, it's like my life is on hold until around Thanksgiving. I always look forward to getting away, but this trip is almost all work and no play. There's a large contingent of faculty and students from our institution attending, and it will be tough to find time to one's self for doing some work or reading or museum-going. I glanced into my little girl's eyes during dinner tonight, and felt a pang about missing Halloween with my kids. They'll be tramping around the neighborhood pretending to be robots and videogame characters, and I'll be halfway across the country.

And of course, all the burdens will be falling on Noel while I'm gone -- he'll be taking the kids to get their flu shots tomorrow, feeding them, bathing them, clothing them, and making sure that their Wii time does not parent mandated limits. It's going to be a long two weeks until I'm back for good ... when it will be time to make plans for holiday travel.

Meet Ross

I certainly appreciate Archer bringing home a sheaf of creative work this week that I can use for my blog! Here are his spelling sentences for the week (the spelling words are underlined):

1. Ross can paint a roof.
2. Ross has paid for the paint.
3. "Leave the store, Ross!"
4. Will Ross or Cecily use the clay?
5. On Ross's farm lay eight cows
6. Ross may seem to smell like gold
7. Ross's neighbor is Lien Skylar and her phone # is 770-2190.
8. Ross may weigh 62 pounds.
9. Never speak when Ms. Callaway or any teacher speaks.
10. No one got eight good as golds as their most.
11. Sometimes, I don't feel good.
12. Ms. Callaway needs to mark folders.
    

These are a few of my favorite things

At church yesterday, during the peace, Archer was cornering our unsuspecting pewmates and telling them: "Now, my favorite way to count is like this: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34 ..."

So the note I tucked into his lunch today asked this question: "Why do you love the Fibonacci sequence?"

Here are his answers (I provided the numbered blanks):

1. It is calculated 1+1=2, 1+2=3 [AA provided arrows showing how each number repeats in the next equation]
1. It starts 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 [AA circled the bolded numbers]
2. It has a puzzling ctdn.
3. The 12th number is 144 (12x12!)
5. The countdown is hidden in this note!

And along the edges he provided the first 12 numbers in the sequence.

Tomorrow it's Crazy Hat Day for the drug-free emphasis Red Ribbon Week in school, and I'll put the kids in their fish hats. Archer could care less about having a fish on his head, but he might get a kick out of the fact that the stripes are all Fibonacci numbers. Now there's something he wouldn't mind dressing in -- or living in.

... Scary! Scary!

Cady Gray took some time while we were setting up jack-o-lanterns to show me her most frightening looks.



This is just generalized scary.




Boo! It's a ghost!




Vampire ... you can see the fangs, I'm sure. They're still baby fangs, they'll fall out eventually.




And my favorite: Mummy! I didn't get any more shots because I was too busy running away in terror. Luckily her actual costume is nowhere near this scary.

Scary! Scary!

Today was jack o'lantern carving day! Here's how it turned out.





The spiky one is Cady Gray's ...




And the happy one is Archer's.




Everybody say "Halloween!"




I certainly hope these pumpkins can coexist peacefully.




Ahhhh! What have you done with my children?!

On scholarships

My institution developed a generous scholarship policy over the last decade. Now the pipers have to be paid; state law has limited the percentage of tuition revenue that can be spent on scholarships, and in order to comply, the scholarship budget has to be cut by half.

Our administration has repeatedly and publicly said that we don't need to buy students. We have a great university with great programs; students should pay to come here.

In general, I agree. But there are some categories of student that won't pay. If we want them, we will have to pay. That's just a fact. The highest-performing high school students will not come here without scholarships, because they can command quite handsome prices. Why would they sell themselves short? Our regional public university, no matter how wonderful a place, will not be able to attract them at full price or even half price, when there are many institutions in and out of state willing to buy them at the MSRP.

It sounds logical that a university should not have to buy its students. But would you say the same thing about a football program? Would you assert that we have such a wonderful team that potential athletes will gladly pay to be a part of it? The fact is that if you want top athletes, you must pay for them with scholarships. Nobody would argue differently, because it's patently obvious. If you want a marching band, you must pay for it with scholarships. (That may not be widely known, but it is true.) Would you say that you don't have to pay competitive salaries for top faculty because we have such a wonderful university that people should be glad to come here regardless of their compensation?

Quality costs money, because quality is in demand. That goes for top students just as it does for top athletes and employees. The question before my institution is not "do we have to pay for students?" It's "what students are worth paying for?" And if the answer truly is "none," then exactly what does the assertion that we have a wonderful university that's attractive on its own mean? Can you point to a high-quality university that doesn't have any top-tier students? Those students enrich faculty life, which keeps morale high and turnover low. They win top national awards and provide tangible evidence of the desirability of the university's education -- which in turn attracts more high-quality students.

Students worth paying for attract other students who pay their own way. Success breeds success. The rich get richer. And an attempt to have an unquantifiable "quality" on the cheap might end with the institution poorer than it was before it started trying to save money.

Anxiety and nausea

I put it off until today. I knew how difficult it was going to be, and I saw no reason to extend the misery by starting early.

The task was selecting a teaching assistant for next semester. In our freshman team-taught class, each of the seven instructors has an upper-division student working at her side. The program is a way to give our undergraduates teaching roles, to help alleviate the heavy workload of the writing-intensive seminar, and to foster mentorship between the instructor and the assistant.

It's been an amazingly successful program, now entering its fifth year. I've had amazing students at my side, and the course has changed dramatically as a result. Now I see the classroom as a collaborative space, each interaction a chance to hear many voices. Grading has become a conversation with three participants at a minimum. I love what's happened as a result of sharing the classroom with my "pedagogical associate" (or PA for short).

But in order to enjoy those benefits, I have to choose a student each semester to work with during the semester following. And that's getting harder and harder, or at least it feels that way. The selection process involves an extensive application each candidate submits, the rank-ordering of top candidates by each instructor, and then a meeting at which we look at our individual rankings. We choose our own PAs; if the student I ranked first was not ranked first by any other instructor, I get to work with that student. If two or more instructors had the same top choice, we negotiate to determine who goes with their second or third choice.

This semester thirteen students applied for seven slots. I made an initial pass through the applications and came up with eight students I personally could see choosing. The job this morning was to narrow that down to three, and put them in order.

How do you choose? I knew many of the students well, but not all of them. I was impressed by the erudition of some, the writing facility of others, the teaching philosophy of still others. Did I want a strong personality, a charismatic figure who would inspire the freshmen? Did I want a nurturing, behind-the-scenes type? What was more important to me -- the associate's dependability in a job that requires continuous herculean effort; her prowess as a reader, writer, or editor; his mastery of complex interdisciplinary material; her potential as a leader of class discussion?

I can't answer any of those questions ahead of time. What emerges as most important in any given semester does so out of the particular pool of candidates. I imagine them in my classroom, try to feel the dynamic that will arise out of the combination of our personalities. I think about their strengths and wonder about their weaknesses. I feel the desire of some candidates for the position itself, some for the opportunity to work with me in particular. I try to assess my own feelings for the students whom I think deserve this opportunity, would benefit from it, would make the most of it, could have their lives changed by it.

And in the end, I make a short-short list of ... five, actually. But only the top three matter, almost certainly. I order them with a heavy heart. I'm not sure if what I'm being swayed by is the best factor to have as the deciding one. I rationalize my qualms, try to live with it settled. Then at the last moment, seconds before the meeting begins, I change the order. I'm convinced that I can't ignore or downplay a factor I'd been willing to overlook before.

Now the rankings are made available to the group, and glory hallelujah, there are no conflicts! We're done almost before we had a chance to begin. But the meeting's not complete before we talk a little more about the candidates and justify our choices to each other.

It's done. And now it's up to me to write to the candidates who weren't chosen. The nausea sets in. Some of these were people I specifically asked to apply. Some were on my short lists. And I have to tell them (some for the second or third time, some in their last chance) that they didn't get selected. Did I make the right choice? Was my last-second change of heart motivated by the right reasons? I'm feeling the loss of all the classes that could have been -- the different energies and expertises and relationships that won't come into being because I settled on this one instead of that one.

But it's done. I think I did right -- but right has little meaning when you're talking about multiple possibilities for growth and flourishing and creativity. It's just decision, "cutting off," this one rather than that one -- a vision of what could be that you settled on, even though others beckoned with their own unique value. I can't wait to get started. But right now, in the short respite before my new PA responds to the news and we begin forging our partnership, I'm still mourning all the other ways that might have been.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

It's fair -- if not a bit of an understatement -- to say that my university is in transition. Budget woes of our own making have been compounded by revenue shortfalls statewide that have resulted in mid-year reductions in current budgets. An academic culture created by the previous administration is being replaced wholesale, and morale as well as expectations are in flux throughout the institution.

Nothing is certain in such an environment. I'm thankful for tenure, and I'm pretty sure my unit isn't going to vanish or my job be taken away. But what could happen is that the administrative part of my job could disappear. Anyone who's got extra time and duties layered on top of their base faculty position could find themselves back in a regular faculty position at any time, either through replacement in that position or through its elimination.

I thought hard today, for the first time in a while, about what would happen if I were no longer an administrator. And for the first time ever, maybe, I discovered that I really didn't like the idea. I got into administration because I loved being a part of making things happen, and I loved seeing how things tick. Certainly there are downsides to it -- less direct contact with students, becoming a lightning rod for criticism, thankless attention to trivia.

But when I thought about going back to having responsibility primarily for my classes and having more time for my own research projects, I found -- somewhat to my surprise -- that I didn't like the idea. In fact, if I spun out the hypothetical, I thought that I'd probably end up searching for other administrative jobs rather than stay put in a different capacity.

Now I have no desire to search for another job. Quite the opposite; I'm quite attached to staying put. And I have no reason to think that the administrative part of my job is in question or jeopardy. But it shocks me somewhat to find that I identify myself as an administrator rather than as a faculty member or scholar. I have to be grateful for that clarity. Knowing what you want now -- rather than what you envisioned for yourself ten years ago -- is important. Even if I never have to act on that knowledge, it's a sea change in my self-image. And I'm thankful to the crisis for helping me understand who I am in 2009.

The jet set

Next week I'll be headed to Washington, D.C. for the national honors meeting, at which I'm giving two presentations and leading a half-day workshop. The following week I'm going to Montreal for the national religious studies meeting -- no presentations there, but plenty of board of directors duties.

I've been too busy to look forward much to the trips. There's too much preparation, especially for the first meeting, to think about packing or sightseeing. But some of that preparation can't be rushed, either. There's a temptation to just take a couple of hours and grind it out, but you can't grind out ideas or inspiration.

Today was a gorgeous day -- low seventies, brilliant sunshine. After my classes and meetings, I went out to the big fountain that serves as the campus focal point, sat on a bench, and jotted down thoughts for those presentations and workshop sessions. It's all material that I've spoken and presented about dozens of times, and the workshop is based on one that we did three years ago, just with slightly different personnel and emphasis. But you still need a reason to say this rather than that. You need an idea and an organizing principle.

I sat by the fountain soaking up the sun, knitting, thinking, writing. All the ideas came in the first quarter hour. Then I tried to think about objections, counterexamples, extensions. I watched classes that had managed to persuade their instructors to come outside gather under shade trees and try to ignore loud groups of students taking pictures of each other with the fountain as a backdrop. I gathered my thoughts and plans for the next week, and tried to figure out when I'd get this piece done and that piece done.

The semester is half over, and after I get back from my travels, there won't be much left to the two classes I'm teaching. It will be time to finalize the syllabi for next semester and make holiday plans. These trips are the watershed and the crucible of the season. I'll be as busy and stressed during certain days over the next two weeks as at any time during the year. But it's all in the service of the ideas that come when they come, the ones you can't force but that nevertheless have to arrive before the deadline. The ones you scratch down in a notebook beside a fountain on a perfect fall day, playing hooky from the office.

Nightfall

I have semi-regular evening classes or screenings just about every semester. It's not something I really enjoy, going back to campus after dinner when all I want to do is read to my kids and take a shower and write and watch television.

But the reward comes when the class or the film is over, and I walk out of the building into what's suddenly -- night. There's a cool blast of air when I open the door. As I descend the steps, I can't help but look up into the dark sky. After a moment of acclimation, stars appear.

The academic buildings may be empty, but gaggles of students roam the dormitory areas, the fitness center, the parking lots. Our faculty illusion of ownership over the campus is shattered at night.

I'm glad for the moment to walk in the glow of lamps and security lighting, and to breathe the night air. A settled middle-aged life means, among other things, that you're not out and about much at night. I'm not sure it compensates for hours spent at the office after normal working hours, but it's pretty nice nonetheless.

Snowblind

We turned on football this afternoon, and there were our Tennessee Titans in their Houston Oilers-style throwback uniforms ... slogging around on a snow-covered field in New England.

I've been looking forward to colder weather ever since I finished my Malabrigo coat back in July. And while there are weather extremes in other parts of the country -- too much rain in California, hot in the Southwest, snow up north -- we're having a bracing slide into autumn here, now that all the wet stuff is over. I'm enjoying dressing myself and my children in their new sweaters and jackets, digging out hats and mitts, reminding their dad to bundle them up before taking them to the playground.

But the white stuff flying around on television was a sudden reminder that there's a downside to winter's advent. I have a lot of travel coming up in the next few weeks, and we're planning to visit the family right after Christmas. Snow and ice can really throw a wrench into those schemes.

Ever since summer, our weather has been just about perfect. Leaving aside some flooding rains in the last month, we had an unexpectedly drought-free summer, a July and August virtually bereft of three-digit temperatures, and long stretches of perfect readings in the seventies since school's started. Could it be possible that we'll have a winter without an ice storm, with a couple of half-foot snowfalls only on the weekends that melt before we have to go back to work on Monday? Might we have pleasant weather and on-time flights for our trips, dry highways and flurries on Christmas Eve while we're safe in our beds?

I know it's asking too much. Really, I'll be happy if we make it where we're going and back without losing our luggage or sleeping involuntarily in a layover city. I hope your autumn and winter is everything you dream, too.

But will it preach?

I'm preaching tomorrow at St. Peter's -- come on down if you're in Conway -- and it's a particularly challenging Sunday. The Old Testament text is Job, and it's the start of the church's stewardship drive. Begging for money is no exactly what anyone wants to do from the pulpit.

Luckily that's not my job (although our wonderful vicar Teri give me the green light to mention stewardship if I so desired). And luckily I'm fascinated by the book of Job.

I only occupy the pulpit three or four times a year, and that only because of the kind permission of the vicar. But I have many friends who are both clergy and university faculty. For me, getting a chance to speak out of my faith is a clarifying and refreshing break from my academic pose. Some of my colleagues (especially those who teach in church-affiliated schools) wear both hats every week.

It's gratifying when some of my students come sit in the pews while I'm preaching, but beyond their show of support for me, I'm glad they get to see a public university professor speaking in the arena of faith. There's a stereotype about us academic types out there, and there's another stereotype about people with religious confessions. Professional intellectuals can value their church communities and their prayer lives, and clergy and laypeople can value scholarship and intellectual rigor. Some of my students have never seen those two worlds occupying the same time and space. To them, I say: The doors of St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Conway are always open to you.

Dancin' machine

Tonight we went to Archer and Cady Gray's school for their Fall Festival fundraiser. Hot dogs were eaten, chip & dip recipes from all the grade levels were sampled and evaluated, bingo was played and cakes were walked.

The kindergarten teachers had the most ... aggressive ... dip sales operation. The idea was that you were supposed to sample all the dips and vote with a donation for the one you liked the best. Under a blue awning, the kindergarten teachers wore the local high school's football uniforms and did organized cheers.

Just as we were finishing up our food and getting ready to head out to the carnival games, the kindergarten tent fired up a boom box with a dance tune. I'm sure I had heard it before, but it was a little under my vintage. Something about stepping this way, sliding this way, jumping back and forth, then clapclapclapclapclap.

Cady Gray and Archer dropped everything and started dancing. They jumped in the aisles. They slid and stepped in front of people trying to navigate to tables with plates full of chili. They clapped like their lives depended on it. No matter how many times we tried to herd them out of the traffic lanes, they jumped right back into the open spaces as soon as the amplified voice told them to.

If the Pied Piper needed an updated tune, this would be it. Completely irresistible to our children, I tell you. The beat pounded and the voice commanded, and they were helpless to do anything other than dance.

Overtime

Like everyone else who participating in the A.V. Club's Chicago promotional event for its new book, Noel came down with a vicious cold (or a relatively mild flu) twelve hours later. By the time he got home the next day, he was shaking and hot, had lost his appetite, and wasn't able to do anything but lie motionless on the couch under a blanket.

That had an interesting effect on the reunion in several ways:

1. No hugging. Even though Noel is feeling somewhat better today, the only physical contact I've had with him is feeling his forehead. The kids have had none.
2. Continuation of caretaking. I got up this morning to make the kids breakfast, just like I did for the rest of the week.
3. Takeout diet. I made the kids dinner one night while Noel was gone, and I felt pretty good about that. In normal circumstances his return would mean we're eating home-cooked meals. But because neither of us wanting his germy self preparing food -- and because I'm lame -- we ended up with drive-through food again tonight.

But things are looking up. Noel's fever is down, although his cough is still painful. He slept well last night, worked through the day, and had an appetite for the chicken I brought home. I had a productive day at work and stayed late because Noel was well enough to pick up the kids and supervise them during the afternoon. And tomorrow is Friday; if things continue to improve, we'll have a normal weekend.

Provided none of the rest of us get sick, of course. Here's hoping all that hand-washing, sanitizer, and lack of physical contact keeps us out of harm's way.

Man on the moon

I confess that I arrived at last night's videoconference full of doubt. The plan had been hatched last spring in Montreal at the AAR's board of directors meeting. John O'Keefe, a professor at Creighton University, had bonded with me over the past couple of years; we were fellow technophiles and enthusiastic about taking our pedagogy into the twenty-first century. Over breakfast in Montreal we came up with a way to combine our classes. He would be teaching ecological theology; I would be teaching process theology. His syllabus would have a unit on process thought; mine would have a unit on ecology. If we could just make those units coincide, then we had the perfect opportunity to get our students together.

And so this semester we contacted the appropriate technical people on our campuses to make use of the videoconferencing facilities available to us. It was a lengthy and worrisome process, with personnel out for long periods of time or not as communicative as we might have liked But finally we had confirmation -- the test call had gone fine, and we were set to go.

I showed up last night convinced that something would go wrong. (After all, my babysitter had canceled that morning, and I'd spent the day fretting about just making to to the session.) Fifteen minutes before class was due to start, and I was kicking myself for not calling that day to confirm plans with the IT department. But ten minutes before class was due to start, the technician showed up and opened the door -- and voila, we could already hear chatter through the speakers. The call had already come in and been connected, and all that was left on our end was to turn on the cameras. The technician showed me how to control the cameras and audio, and then left me in charge. I was shocked; far from being a monumental undertaking requiring intensive cooperation and expertise, the whole thing was ... routine.

We enjoyed a spirited hour of conversation -- nine or ten people on their end, a similar number on ours, and a guest speaker to get us started. My students enjoyed answering the Creighton contingent's questions about process theology; I think it surprised and delighted them to be the experts in the discussion. The differences between the two groups became clear in a way that led to much comment, especially in the level of religiosity (my students being all over the map from atheist/materialist to Hindu to evangelical Christian, and O'Keefe's group being mostly Catholics and theology majors).

We ran fifteen minues over before I felt like I had to shut things down, and afterwards everyone left our room still talking and arguing. O'Keefe sent me an e-mail to tell me that he and his students had retired to the campus pub (there's another difference right there) and talked theology for ninety minutes.

And it was easy. The equipment was all there waiting to be used; all we had to do was come up with a time that worked for both of us. I'm already scheming ways to connect up my classes with others every semester.

Brightening skies

It's been a strange trip all around. Noel's Chicago jaunt was supposed to be headquartered in the guest room at Chez Head Editor, but then said editor got called out of town on a family emergency. So the bivouac moved to the sofa at Chez Old Friend. A bed of one's own and a big dog was exchanged for a sofa to crash on and a preschooler. A day spent in exhausting meetings at the A.V. Club offices was exchanged for a morning waiting for the cable guys to arrive.

As for me, I woke up to forecasts of heavy rain and the news that my babysitter, who had been secured well in advance for tonight's evening class, was sick and had to cancel. That led to a frantic morning flooding Facebook and Twitter with requests for assistance before a kindly alumnus came through.

Now there remain only two uncertainties -- well, maybe three.

1. I have to skedaddle over to campus at 5:30 in order to be present as the host of the 6 pm videoconference. What form should dinner take for the kids? I'm leaning toward pizza, but it's not quite as easy to go pick it up from the place a few blocks away when there's only one adult in the house. (Delivery, shelivery -- I haven't paid to have a pizza brought to my door in years.)
2. This is the first videoconference I've ever done using the facilities at school. A guest speaker on my end will be addressing members of my class, his class from the school across the tracks, and a class at Creighton University led by a colleague of mine on the AAR board. I don't know how smoothly it should go, but presumably the technician on site both here and in the remote location will be able to make it work. Never having done it before, I have no image in my head of what to expect.
3. After I rush home and relieve my emergency babysitter, it's time to blog the finale of a reality show. Or is it the finale? The previews last week didn't bill it as such. So I'm not sure whether I'll be investing two hours in that endeavor or just one.

In any case, once we get through the night and the kids are safely at school tomorrow, it should be the end of my shift of single parenting. Noel is scheduled to arrive home mid-afternoon -- if there are no delays, he'll be available to pick up the kids. And then Thursday and Friday I'll have quiet days at work with no students and no class. (Some would say I never have any class.) I'm looking forward to a relaxing weekend of me time. And preaching on Sunday. Which will be relaxing if I can get my sermon written on Thursday or Friday.

So good to me

What makes a perfect pumpkin?

It's a question asked in many a fall-themed children's book. And one that comes up anytime a kindergarten class takes a field trip to a pumpkin patch.

There was an article in the local paper today about the difficulties pumpkin-patch operators encounter trying to turn a profit. At this time of year, it's hard to imagine that the pumpkineers aren't raking it in; all you have to do, it seems, is plant a half-acre and then sit back and collect money from the school buses that will start lining up at your gate before they've even sprouted. But I guess there's quite a bit to it -- you need to press some sorghum, map out a hayride, invest in some petting-zoo animals. The article stated that if the crop is bad, as it's been the last couple of years, you have to buy pumpkins wholesale to plump out your patch. That cuts into the margin, I'm sure.

Like most parents, I have some definite pumpkin preferences. I'm not sure what the point of a small pumpkin would be, since I don't like pumpkin to eat and am unlikely to make a pie. The bigger, the better, as far as I'm concerned -- easier to carve, more impressive on the doorstep.

I didn't get to accompany Cady Gray on her pumpkin patch field trip today. What with Noel in Chicago and me with the usual work responsibilities, there was no one who could subtly push her in the direction of jack-o-lantern-sized gourds. So she came home with a perfectly Cady Gray-sized pumpkin, just about exactly the volume of her head. It's gorgeously round, pleasingly proportioned, classically sectioned. I have no idea what to do with it, but sitting on our kitchen table, it's a lovely evocation of the misty, chilly weather that's taken hold, and a signal of the rapidly fleeing year.

... Naturally

Noel took off for Chicago this morning. His colleagues at the A.V. Club have a full two days of brainstorming and planning in store for him, interspersed with cool premieres and book readings.

Luckily, I'm feeling like this week is going to be relatively easy. There are only three days of classes for me -- our fall break is Thursday and Friday. On Tuesday I've canceled my regular class meeting because we're doing an evening videoconference with a class at Creighton, featuring a guest speaker. I have a lot of writing to do (book review, four television write-ups); there's midterm grading happening, and a thousand other administrative tasks that need attention.

But all along I've considered this whole week an extension of my birthday. It might not feel like it until Noel gets home on Wednesday and I'm basking in two days with no students and no classes (and trying, as usual, to get up the motivation to accomplish something under those conditions). Things will really start hopping next week when we're back in class and it's only a few days until the double-whammy of conferences on back-to-back weekend in DC and Montreal (at both of which I have responsibilities, although it's behind the scenes only at the second).

And fortunately the kids are ridiculously easy to handle right now (knock on wood). Cady Gray is thrilled about going to the pumpkin patch tomorrow. As long as I get clothes on their backs and lunches in their hands, my work is done.

So I hope Noel enjoys himself with friends and productive work in Chi-town. I won't be playing all that much, but I also won't be stressed about the solo parenting for the next few days. Now please excuse me while I watch a TV show online ahead of time to avoid a pile up three days hence, then retire to plow through the last 100 pages of the book I'm reviewing tomorrow.

Teach the controversy

I've had a full day at Hendrix College, across the railroad tracks, teaching Reformation theology to part-time lay pastors. It was an especially good class today, to an especially good group -- smaller than most I've had, and maybe therefore more active.

Anybody who watches me in class knows that I love to teach and I love my subject. And almost any period of Christian history gives me a chance to get into what about it I love -- the complexities and relativities of theology in time. We started the day with a vigorous application of existentialism to the kinds of certainty and absolutism displayed by both reformers and Catholic authorities, and we ended with a vigorous defense of Calvin's worldview. No two discussions could be more different, and yet what united them is a delight in wrestling with the ideas that meant everything to people at that time.

Can we think along with people in history? I think we can, and nothing gets me more excited than when I see someone assuming that posture and defending a worldview that is quite different from their own. That's necessary if we are going to be able to assume good faith on the part of those who currently think differently from us. I find it invigorating to think that both the Catholics and the reformers (and the reformers and the spiritualists, and the Inquisitors and their victims, and so on) were trying to defend and promote what they felt to be the essential elements of the tradition they received and the faith that will save. How their commitments then issue into wildly opposed action becomes a study not in right and wrong, but in conflict and compromise.

Hammerin'

I went to work. I graded papers. I went to class. I went to meetings. I graded more papers. I attended a conference call.

It was a normal day -- maybe even a bit busier than usual. But it was still an outstanding forty-fourth birthday for me. Here's what made it special:

• When I walked into the living room first thing in the morning, Cady Gray greeted me with a beaming, "Happy birthday, Mom!"
• Students, colleagues, readers, and general well-wishers flooded my Facebook page, Twitter feed, and HCOL thread with birthday congratulations.
• My freshmen decorated a pumpkin with all their names and gave it to me in class.
• One of my freshmen, who just learned to knit a few weeks ago, gave me a beautiful fringed coaster she had made and thanked me for everything I'd done to help her.
• Noel not only told me to take my time getting home, but met with me cookies and my birthday present on arrival.
• That birthday present? These beauties. Oh, yes.
• There's a half-dozen comedies on the TiVo for tonight.

I can hardly think of anything better. Happy birthday to me!

The beat goes on

Tomorrow is my birthday. I've already got the Facebook messages and the card from the university president to prove it.

But there's no rest this weekend. Tonight and tomorrow we're supposed to get torrential rain, and I get anxious about heavy rain because our street and yard flood so easily. I won't be able to relax fully until the heaviest rain has passed by tomorrow. Saturday I'm teaching the Methodist pastors all day. Saturday night I'm going out for a birthday dinner with Noel. And then Sunday he's leaving for Chicago. I'll be in charge of the kids until Wednesday.

The real relaxation won't come until a week from now; our two-day fall break starts next Thursday. Until then, birthday or no birthday, I'll be in one-day-at-a-time mode. But I'm still looking forward to being forty-four. As Noel pointed out today, that's the Hank Aaron age. And I'm determined to knock it out of the park during the year to come.

Owowowowow

I woke up this morning after an uncommonly refreshing sleep, turned on the Weather Channel, and vigorously circled my shoulders to work out the kinks.

Bad mistake.

I got an immediate twinge between my shoulder blades, and no amount of stretching or popping would relieve it. As the day went on, the twinge turned into a dull spreading pain; I could isolate it by tilting my head straight back, as though I were looking up at the sky.

My motivation to do any work, or move around much at all, dried up. After a normal productive morning, I spent most of the afternoon almost motionless in my office chair, reading online and doing some light grading. Brisk walks to the library to pick up a book, or to the parking lot to check the mileage on my car so I could renew the registration online -- little errand breaks that normally I would welcome -- I skipped.

When I got home, after a delicious dinner, I went to the front room and sat in an upholstered chair. Leaning my head back was painful at first -- a few seconds of ow, oh, eeyahh -- but once I got in that position, I had no desire to move at all. I believe I could have fallen asleep in that exact position.

The relief of motionlessness convinced me that I could skip my usual half-hour workout. I went straight to the showers. Now I'm sitting on the couch with a microwave heat bag spread across my upper back, helping Cady Gray with a list of rooms in the house and typing slowly.

I don't experience pain or discomfort often, and it always surprises me how pervasive it becomes while it lasts. I feel vaguely chilled, almost like I were coming down with the flu; the hot shower felt like heaven. I feel worn out, as if I could collapse into sleep at any second. The first effect comes from the radiating effect of the pain; the second from the lethargy of motionlessness. But they combine to make me feel not so great, even when the pain's not present.

It's such a minor thing, but it has such a cumulative affect on my mood and on what I can talk myself into doing. Check in with me tomorrow to see whether I've bounced back -- or possibly sunk deeper.

Me from TV

The new TV season is upon us, and a lot of my favorite shows are firing on all cylinders. Here's what I'm enjoying these days:

• How I Met Your Mother. I write about this show for the TV Club. It's a traditional sitcom -- laugh track and all -- but with an energetic tweak. And the performers have developed into quite the ensemble.
• Actually, there's a lot of CBS comedy that I love: The Big Bang Theory, The New Adventures of Old Christine. Is this a sign that I'm getting old?
• On the "heck no, I'm not old yet" front, nothing delivers the laughs like It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia.
• New network sitcoms with promise: Modern Family, Community, and yes, Cougartown.
  
• I look forward to the cream of the reality competition crop every week: Top Chef, Project Runway, Survivor, The Amazing Race.
• Perhaps because my attention span is decreasing, I don't watch the hour-long dramas like I used to. Noel writes about Fringe and Lie To Me, but they're not appointment television for me (well, Fringe is pretty awesome).

I'm not ashamed to admit that I love television. What's on your season pass list?

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.

In the bleak

Today was the first day in five or six months that I have worn long sleeves. I've flirted with three-quarter sleeves several times in the last few weeks. But today, the sleeves came all the way to my wrists. I suppose that means that the weather has started to turn.

If only the turn had been in the direction of those brisk, smoky autumn days that make the world stand out in sharp relief. But no -- it was because of a cold drizzling mist that occasionally condensed into outright rain showers. The sun made no appearance, and the temperature stayed in the fifties. That's no time to pretend that you're in between seasons. It's the moment when layers begin to seem like a good idea.

I've been enjoying the cool mornings lately -- gives me a chance to break out the woolly accessories and plan sweater knitting. But this wasn't the kind of day that makes you want to swath yourself in cozy knitwear and stroll through autumn's glory. It was the kind of day that chases you inside no matter what you're wearing.

After returning from church at lunchtime, all I wanted to do was curl up on the couch and make progress on a scarf or a vest. Instead I started and ripped, started and ripped, dissatisfied with size or fabric. I headed out midafternoon and pinballed from office to drive-through to church and back again, struggling with umbrellas and feeling both rushed and chilled. It's an apt start for what promises to be a wet and crowded week whose routine threatens to be crowded out by deadlines and special events.

If I can make it through to Friday, though, I'll be rewarded with two days of birthday bliss ... before Noel leaves town. It's not just the start of colder, grayer weather. It's midterm. One word signifying simply that your time is not your own.

Block party weekend

Today's post about gifts you can't bear to give away is at Toxophily.

Today was Family Day at my university. Do you think the kids had fun with the activities provided before the football game?



Giant inflatable slide: check.




Make that double-check.




Snowcone: check.




Hello Kitty facepainting: check.




An iTunes playlist to examine: check.




Pony ride: check.






Fun in the sun: check and mate.

NaNoWriMo

No, I'm not participating. Well do I remember my last attempt at writing fiction. It was the eighth grade, and it was horrific. Really, you have no idea. Imagine if the function of every character was to state the opinions of the author. Imagine what would happen to the basics of fiction -- plot, for example. That was my eighth-grade stab at fiction, enough to cure me of ever believing I could write it again.

But after today's Soapbox (voluntary student Friday afternoon presentation) on National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo veteran Sarah asked the assembled 25 students or so how many would be trying the exercise. More than half raised their hands. "I love you so much right now," Sarah declared, and I can only second the emotion.

It's hard for some people to wrap their minds around the concept of doing something not because the end product is expected to be intrinsically valuable, but because the process of doing it will make you a better person. That's NaNoWriMo. The novels written because of the exercise will never see the light of day, in almost every case. But writing them has taught the authors something. It's shown them that they have far more resources than they imagined -- that they are capable of doing something they never thought they could do. At the end they believe themselves to be more capable than they did when they started. It's an accomplishment than can never be bought; it must be earned. Yet moving from here to there takes only a month, and can be done along with thousands of like-minded people.

It was Sarah's commitment to NaNoWriMo that led me to knit my first sweater, as part of NaKniSweMo. And like the writers, my sweater knitting was a quantum leap. It took me from "I don't know how people ever do that" to "I did that," in one fell swoop.

I'll be starting another sweater for NaKniSweMo, there's no doubt; I have dozens planned, so it's just a matter of picking the right one. Sounds like a good project for October, while my novel-writing students begin planning their plots and characters.

Rocktober

It's my favorite month of the year at last. Among the many great features of October: (1) Autumn, my favorite season; (2) My birthday; (3) Our anniversary.

I'd add Halloween to that -- I really enjoy doing Halloween with the kids -- but I won't be here for it this year. I'll be in Washington, D.C. at the National Collegiate Honors Council annual meeting.

All day I've been joking with the staff that it's too bad October is here, because now I have to do all the things I put off until October. And there's some truth to that. I've committed to doing a lot of things in October -- this weekend I'm teaching an Inquirers Class at church, next weekend I'm teaching Methodist pastors all day again, the following weekend I'm preaching. Noel is taking a brief trip to Chicago in a couple of weeks. At that DC meeting I'm doing a presentation and co-leading a workshop. Reports are due, memos await writing, and that's on top of the weekly round of teaching and writing.

It doesn't seem as overwhelming as September did. There's a mini-vacation in the middle of October. None of these little extra tasks will consume more than a couple of days of my time. At the end of the month, though, is a two-and-a-half week black hole. I'll be in DC for half a week, then three days after returning I go to Montreal for five days. The second trip, especially, should be therapeutic. I'll see lots of friends and colleagues, important work will be done, there will be time to immerse myself in my field and enjoy the city.

Every semester, one way or another, lurches from one crisis to the next. So right now I'm enjoying the relative normalcy of my days and trying not to anticipate the stress of what's coming until it actually hits.