It's Not Enough; It's Never Enough

So often, I look at the clock or the calendar and realize that the minutes, hours, days are slipping by, yet I never seem to accomplish enough. I am overwhelmed. Here it is, Sunday night, and I look at my list of things to do over the weekend--laundry, grocery shopping, read this, write that. And of my list of 15 items, I have completed maybe 2. And I hate that feeling, the panic that arises when I realize that there's so much I should have done but somehow didn't manage to do. And I know, I try to remind myself, that maybe my expectations are unrealistic, that maybe it's healthier to simply sit on the couch and read on Saturday morning. (And let's face it, all I want to do on a Saturday morning is to read a book, bake muffins, take a bath, and watch a movie.) But here I am, with so much to do, not enough time in which to do it. No matter what I do--simply make dinner, or grade a set of essays, or even finish my dissertation--it never feels like enough; there's always more, always the thing that I didn't get done. I think that probably the real underlying problem here is perfectionism. And to be honest, I expect more of myself than I do of most other people. I want to move beyond that. I want to feel satisfaction in what I have accomplished instead of focusing on all that I haven't. I could probably list, just off the top of my head, 35 things I've failed at, most of them relatively unimportant, some of them important. Yet, I'd be hard pressed to list 10 that I've been successful at. And what really gets to me sometimes is that I know there are people out there--my friends from grad school who don't have jobs yet--who look at me and think how "lucky," how successful I am. And sometimes I wish I could see that, instead of seeing all that I haven't done: laundry, grocery shopping. No matter what I do, it's not enough; it's never enough.

Visiting Churches

Today, I visited a new church, and it was actually encouraging. Since I moved here 18 months, well nearly 18 months ago, I've been looking, sometimes not very diligently, for a church. And nothing had been satisfactory for one reason or another. Maybe I'm overly picky; maybe not. I guess that I can't really help it that I believe what I do and that I'm looking for a church whose doctrine matches my own.

Anyhow, today, for the first time, I visited a United Reformed congretation. It's about an hour's drive, which isn't ideal and isn't feasible when the winter weather is bad. But the good thing is that for the first time since I've been in Vermont, I was not immediately put off by the service. In fact, I found nothing to which I immediately object; this is unusual for me. In addition, the people, the pastor and his wife and the other members, were very warm, welcoming, and friendly. In the past when I have visited churches, I haven't really felt that. I'm the first to say that one shouldn't pick a church based on how friendly everyone is, but I have to say that it was just nice, almost like coming home, to feel genuinely welcome.

I'm embarrassed, quite honestly, that it's taken me this long to visit there. But I am greatly encouraged by the whole experience. Maybe this will work out for me. Maybe this will be my "church home," at least while I'm in Vermont. I don't know. But I am proud of myself that I went today, that I took that step. I have all this weird social anxiety, and it sometimes manifests itself when attending a new church, especially by myself. I know that that sounds odd to someone who doesn't have problems with anxiety--I know that many people maybe don't "get" that. Anyway, on the way there, my stomach became nervous, and I started to worry. But the point is that in spite of my panic, in spite of the difficulty, I managed to do it. And it was a blessing, the right thing to have done.

Weekly Goals

As some of you know, I am working to incorporate into my routine things that will make me healthier (spiritually, emotionally, physically), things that I can do daily or weekly with commitment. And this is pretty much something I'm always working on. However, those of you who know me well in "real" life know that my tendency is to decide to make these big, dramatic, sweeping kind of changes in my life. However, I set myself up for failure that way--I ask of myself more than one person can reasonably be expected to do. So my new strategy is to implement changes, small changes, one at a time. Then, implement more small changes a week or two later. This makes sense to me. The other part of my strategy is that I'm going to post my goals and progress here. It not that I so much think that anyone really cares to read about all this, but I think I'm more likely to follow through if to someone I care about, I verbalize my goals and commitments. So here we go:

For last week (well, really the week that ends today, my first week back at work), my goal was to read my little personal devotional (I hate that word) and pray each morning. So--CHECK! I've done it. If anyone's interested, I'm reading Tabletalk from Ligonier. However, I'm reading last year's issues--currently a study of James. I'm also reading my Bible regularly in the evenings. And this is such an important thing, but I'd not been very "good" about it all in recent months. But starting a new semester always inspires me to clean up things in other areas of my life as well. I think it's the switch to a different schedule. I don't know--it just feels like starting over.

I'm still mulling over my new goal for the coming week. Would it be silly if my goal were simply to take more bubble baths? I think that's a good goal. I know that I'm saying this all the time, but I really, really believe that a key to contentment is learning to enjoy, even revel in, the little day-to-day activities and luxuries. For me, this means a good read in a long, hot bath or really good tea in a cup that I enjoy. This also means watching BBC stuff on DVD, rather than crappy TV that I don't even enjoy.

Maybe my goal for the coming week, however, should be to write in my journal each morning. I know from past experience that this helps me stay sane. Or maybe my goal should be to practice meditation each morning. Or maybe my goal should have to do with exercise--yoga and pilates have done wonders for me in the past. Yikes! I realize that all these things make me a healthier, happier person. Why don't I do them more often.

As a side note, I've decided that my quality of life would be greatly improved by an iPod. Am I just being silly?

Drennan

What I'm Reading (and Teaching) Today!

I promised myself that I'd blog at least a quick reaction to everything that I'm reading. This is my project for myself, and now that I'm back to work, I am realizing that it may turn out to be a bigger project than I'd at first anticipated. But here's a quick run down:

1. Reread the introductory stuff and the first chapter of The Hobbit this morning before class. I've read it many, many times. And I never tire of it. But the good thing is this. I was really reading it with an eye to the themes that I want to cover in my class (it's a class specifically on young adult fantasy fiction, and we are reading The Hobbit as our first selection. I'm looking at it as foundational to the genre). There was quite a lot that I wanted to say about medievalism, cultural identity, and gender. And the really great thing is that my students on their own seemed to pick up on all the things that I really wanted them to notice. We talked about runes, Tolkien's work as a philologist, how it all serves to "medievalize" the novel; I guess I can use the term "medievalize." We talked about social class, food, clothing, and other cultural markers. We talked about the clear lack of females in the work. But my students, wonderful, brilliant students, acted like this was clear, and they were engaged with the material. I guess what I mean is that it's all turning out the way one would hope.

2. I read some secondary stuff by Perry Nodelman about picture books--probably not very interesting for me to rehash here, but useful in preparing for teaching. Then, both in and out of class, I "read" several board books. And there's really more going on in most of them than people realize. I also read two different Alice in Wonderland pop-up books. So what could be more fun than that?

3. I think I've given up on We Were the Mulvaneys. Joyce Carol Oates, I'm sorry, but I don't know if I want to deal with it. I have, however, read maybe 250 pages, so I hate to give up now. I'm just not all that into it.

4. Am intermittently reading P.G. Wodehouse. Nice break from "serious" reading.

5. Most importantly to me, I'm reading C.S. Lewis's Till We Have Faces. I know that I keep telling all of you this. But it's a book that I think everyone should read. It's such an amazing, moving novel. And I'll say more about it in a later post--it deserves its own post. But (and I mean this quite literally) aside from the Bible, this is the single book that has changed my life the most. And it seems important somehow, for a number of reasons, that I revisit it now.

So there's my quick update, not really that I think anyone cares, but this was all what I needed to write.

My Brother's West Side Story

I'm writing this mostly b/c Dolce Carina said I should write about it. It all sounds rather melodramatic, but I've been pretty upset.

Yesterday, my brother J. who is 15 fractured his hand during a performance of West Side Story. J is a dancer, and literally, for the last 8 years at least his dream has been to perform in WSS. There are many good dancing roles for a teen-age boy. Apparently, the director tells him he has a nice pirouette. But yesterday, during the opening "fight scene," he fractured his hand. So now he's in a cast, although he has quite a few more performances. And I guess he can still perform (the show must go on, after all), but I don't know that he can do everything. I guess some of his "moves" had to be modified.

Anyway, I really love him, and I feel sorry for him that this crazy, ironic, painful kind of thing had to happen now, as he was approaching his life-long goal. That was an overstatement, but that's how it feels. I wish I could be less engaged emotionally with the situation.

It seems like all these weird, unexpected things have come up in my personal life in the last couple of weeks, and any one of them alone wouldn't be a big deal to cope with, but all together, it's been overwhelming for me. And I'm not even the one in the cast. I think that part of my difficulty is wanting to be near my family but being on the other side of the country.

D

Life is. . .

I don't really have time to write, only I'm "addicted," so I feel like I need to write somehow. Today it strikes me that life is so very beautiful and painful and fulfilling and disappointing and wonderful and disturbing all at the same time. And I am absolutely exhausted; in fact, I just noticed (and corrected) that in a post from yesterday, I used "to" instead of "too," which shows just how exhausted I am.

But it seems to me that the painful and the beautiful things seem to happen sometimes all at once, and it is overwhelming sometimes. And I'm writing in generalities but thinking of specifics, only there isn't the time for the specifics here.

I guess I just understand what it means to be overjoyed and tortured, disappointed and hopeful, all at once.

Ok, I realize that sometimes I'm way too flippant or whatever. And the truth is that I want to be taken seriously. But then I post silly stuff about Sophocles. I mean, I should take Oedipus and his problems seriously, right? Isn't that who I'm supposed to be.

I don't want to be like the dumb-dumb sterotype. And sometimes at work I feel like because I'm youngish and I probably look younger than I really am (last semester one student says, "so you're like 23, right, Drennan?"). In case anyone is wondering, I am 30, nearly 31. But I don't want to be so silly all the time. I mean, silly is Ok for some things. But really, I do have ideas, and I do care passionately about things, and I am committed to my work and to what I believe and to the people with whom I come into contact.

So why doesn't anyone seem to see this about me? Why am I just silly Drennan? Is it because of all the hair-color accidents I've had? Is it because I don't take myself seriously enough?

I work so hard, and I care so much. And I want to be more than the professor who makes jokes about Oedipus, because I am more than that.

Oedipus Rex, or "You'll Shoot Your Eye Out!"

I just finished reading Oedipus Rex and prepping to teach it tomorrow morning in my classes, and I just want to say here all the things that I can't say in class. I know that it's tragedy, and we are supposed to be studying it as an example of classical tragedy and all that, but all that I can think of is things that make me giggle.

The thing about teaching is that I get to teach really cool stuff, and that's great, but sometimes I feel like I'm supposed to be all serious, you know, like when it's tragedy and all, but I just can't find it in me to take it seriously. I mean, tragedy is supposed to elicit the "twin feelings" of "pity and fear," but I don't feel those at all. I just want to say, "Oedipus, get over yourself." And then I want to make really bad jokes like, "It's all Greek to me." And I know this is really immature and stuff, but it's how I feel about Oedpus right now.

I mean, hello, what does blinding himself actually accomplish anyway? I get why it works thematically. And Ican talk about Tieresias, the blind prophet, who is really the only one with insight. And I can talk about how fate works in the play. I can do all the things that, as a good teacher, I'm supposed to do with the play. But right now, I just don't want to.

Instead, I want to say, "Hey, does anyone remember the episode of Inspector Morse where he thinks that Oedipus Rex is the key to the mystery, but then it isn't?" Here's inspector Morse. Dolce Carina knows the episode I mean. I guess that this talk about Morse really demonstrates why it's important that my students read Sophocles' play--cultural literacy and all that. I mean, hey, we couldn't make sense of the Morse episode without knowing something about Oedipus.

Then, there's the whole Freudian thing we can talk about. I'm sure I will have to explain to my students that, yes, Oedipus does really have relations with his own biological mother. That's kind of the whole point. And they say how "gross" it is, which, again is kind of the whole point.

I know that I'm just being a little bit silly about it all. I really am interested in the literature as literature. It's just funnier to think of silly pop culture references. Like, "You'll shoot your eye out." Does everyone know that one?

DISCLAIMER

It strikes me that my entries must sound so sad. I'm not a sad person, really. I'm just very emotional, and I have learned to be OK with that, to accept that it's an important part of who I am. I feel things, and writing about them and talking about them and really feeling them is important to me. I don't know; I guess I just needed to explain, maybe to myself as much as to anyone else.

Zevin's Elsewhere

I'm writing because my unstated, but really more serious, New Year's Resolution was to write about what I read, either here in my blog, or in my journal. But, really, I'm discovering that blogging is more fun.

I just now finished a novel titled Elsewhere by Gabrielle Zevin. I would probably not have picked this up on my own, but J., a colleague whom I respect very much, recommended it to me. It's the story of a teenage girl, Liz, who dies and is transported to an afterlife called Elsewhere. And Elsewhere is neither heaven nor hell, really much like our earth, except that people age backwards.

Anyhow, the first two-thirds weren't all that great. But the last third or so was fascinating. And I cried all through the last 20 or so pages. And this is weird because I almost never cry in books. OK, I admit that when I read The Hobbit, I cry every time when Thorin Oakenshield dies, but other than that, I really don't. And I do not know how to explain how or why this book affected me this way. But I sat on my couch with Guinn and Polly and cried and cried for all the loss that people experience. And I cried for all the people I miss. And I cried for the people in my own life that I've lost. For some reason, I never have proper tissue (you know, Kleenex or something) at home. I do in my office, but not at home. So I sat and cried and cried black eye-liner and blue eye-shadow into lengths and lengths of toilet paper, and I don't even know why. And I just kept crying. And I kept getting more and more toilet paper from the bathroom, as my make-up made this huge mess. And that's almost funny (I'm laughing now), the blue glittery eye-shadow on these handfulls of toilet paper. I guess that reading the book, finishing it anyway, made me thing about loss. I guess that, more than anything, maybe it has to do with thinking about how S.W., a friend of the family, had died recently. It really "got" to me, and then this novel was maybe too much. And, of course, there are all the losses, big and small, that I dare not even mention for fear that I'd never stop writing. I'm OK, really. I just needed to post my entry about Elsewhere. I suppose I'm glad that I read it. It makes me thankful just for life.

Typical Evening

Ok, for those of you who are interested, here's a typical evening at my house. Things to note (marking it as typical):

1. Drennan on the couch in a tee shirt and pajama bottoms.

2. Dogs on couch with Drennan. Polly is the one on the left; Guinnie is on the right.

3. Blankets on the couch.

4. A profusion of books on the tables.

So, I know that this really isn't the best picture of any of us. Looks like it didn't load very well. But I thought it would be fun anyway. I think that if you click on the pic, it will load a bit more clearly or something. This is mostly for my mom who always wants pictures of me (but not necessarily pics of the dogs, but you know, "love me, love my dogs" and all that!)

We're All Mad Here

I know that I should be trying to sleep, but I don't feel like sleeping. I feel like writing--is this a compulsion?

Anyway, last night, I talked to A.H. on the phone, and he said that he was reading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland for a class he was teaching on Avant Garde something. So I've been thinking about Alice ever since.

I think that my favorite part of the story is when Alice meets the Cheshire Cat (don't you love the above graphic?), and he says, "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad. . .You must be [ mad]. . .or you wouldn't have come here." But of course the thing about Alice is that she isn't mad. It's Wonderland that's "mad." Alice is a fairly normal, healthy seven year old. It's the world around her that's "mad." And I so often feel that way. I wonder if I'm mad or, which really seems more likely, if the world that surrounds me is simply mad. I suppose that the Cheshire Cat would make the argument that simply because I am here, in a world that is apparently mad, that doesn't seem to make sense, that simply because I am here, I must be mad too. But I won't believe it. I know that Alice isn't mad, even when her surroundings are. And I have to believe that I'm not mad either.

Alice escapes Wonderland only when she sees things, the pack of cards particularly, for what they really are--nothing more and nothing less. Is that the way out of the apparent madness of this world? To simply learn, through growth and experience, to see things for what they are, no more and no less?

I will not believe that we are all mad simply because we happen to be "here," either in Wonderland or in the "real" world.

I'm Back on Track

Ok, so I'm back on track, for reals. No really. I'm on track. No more griping and worrying about what I didn't do each day. No more excuses. Starting today I'm back on track. And the new semester is starting and all, so it's a good time for it. So here's the deal: there are all these things I'm wanting to change and add to my routine and all that, so I'm trying to just take it slowly and add one "thing" a week. So this morning, I got up before work, and I read my little devotional thing, and I prayed. So I added that to my schedule--so you see: back on track.

I think that if I just keep writing and writing, I'll write myself to wherever it is I am meant to be.

And I'm back on track. And I will, I will read my Bible before bed.

Why I need a Personal Assistant

I don't really expect anyone to even read this, but I write just to maintain a grip on what I pretend is sanity. I decided today that what I need, like Carina's idea for a p.t. (she knows what I mean) is really a personal assistant. In fact, in all those BBC things I watch, they call them p.a.s, so it's perfect, really. Or a wife. Maybe what I need is a wife to take care of things for me. No, maybe it isn't a wife that I need. I don't need someone to cook and clean--I'm happy doing those things myself. But I need a p.a. to run photocopies, make and confirm appointments, attend meetings where he or she would take brief notes so I could skip out on the meetings. All I want is to be able to devote myself to my teaching and my research and my writing, and instead, I spend all my time putting paper in the photocopy machine and making cups of tea. Who knew that with my Ph.D. I'd end up spending so much time running photocopies, which inevitably leads to fighting with the photocopy machine, answering e-mails, and attending meetings. When I was very young, my aspiration was to be a secretary (although now we call them administrative assistants). Ironically, I went to graduate school only to become my own secretary! Oh, this is all just a silly rant, I know. But as my semester begins, I'm frustrated with the amount of time is taken away from activities that contribute to my teaching in a meaningful way. And all this could be solved by having a p.a.

STUDENTS!

I think it would be totally unethical (well, at least partly unethical) to write about it here, in a public forum, but my semester hasn't even started, and I'm already upset / annoyed / frustrated with my students.

Is this normal? Am I just a bad teacher?

Dolce Carina, help me!

Thankful for Work and It's COLD

So I came into work this morning! And although classes don't start until tomorrow, I have plenty of interesting stuff to do. And I am just so thankful to be back to work! I've been on break for about three weeks, and I am just simply a happier person when I have work to get up and look forward to each day. I know that I should be actually working, rather than sitting here blogging, but I wanted to express my excitement somehow.

On an unrelated note, it's cold, really cold. When I left my apartment, the thermometer in my car said it was 5 F, but by the time I got to work it said -4 F. That's cold. I don't know if I'm cut out for this.

Dad, if you are reading this (which I doubt) I'm wearing one of the ties that you gave me as a belt. It looks uber-chic. Aren't you proud to be a part of that????

D

Feeling alone, then connected: feeling unloved, then wanted AND other random observations

Ok, so I know that just a couple of hours ago, I threatened to go to bed. And I did. Well, at least I got in bed and read for a while, then slept for an hour, then read more. But that isn't really what I'm tring to say.

In a conversation that I had with C. the other day and in reading some things she'd written, I realized how quickly we can move from the extreme of feeling completely alienated from the entire world to feeling connected in a meaningful sort of way. Or we can move from thinking that love has somehow failed us to understanding that there are so many people to love us, if only we are open to them. And this suddenly seems like a very important revelation to me. Not only are we capable of being connected to the world and the human race because we have the ability to reach out to others, but also because others care for us too. So when I am having a really, really bad day, I can call my mom or whoever, and there really is someone who loves me. And feeling disconnected is maybe the real lie. Maybe if we all just asked a little more often when we wanted reassurance, we wouldn't feel so alone. That said, I'm going to make a renewed effort to reach out to others because I don't want anyone I care about to feel as isolated as I have at some points in my life.

But the bigger issue, really, and I grapple with this one, is that we are never alone because God is there. Yet, why is it that when we seem most often to need Him, He seems to be silent, far away? I accept that on these occasions, the fault lies with me, not God. Early on in his A Greif Observed, C.S. Lewis writes, "Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms [of grief]. When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel his claims upon you as an interruption. . .But go to HIm when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence" (4). Of course, Lewis later explains that this isn't really how God works, but it's how things seem to feel sometimes. We pray for peace, for comfort, but sometimes God does not seem to send it.

The other thing I wanted to write about is that, as you can see from the above, I'm reading and thinking about Lewis again! That makes me happy. For me, one unwanted side-effect of my dissertation was that for a while I had no interest in reading or even thinking about C.S. Lewis. And now he's back, and it's strange, this feeling that maybe I know him, a man I have never met, better than most of the people I do know. I find myself thinking, far too often, what Lewis would say about a particular situation. But I've come full circle, I think. And I think that I can read C.S. Lewis again for all the reasons that I was drawn to him in the first place, for comfort. For a while, I'd lost that, and I think that I hated the process of wiriting my dissertation, in part, because I felt somehow as though I'd lost this relationship with a writer, a relationship that I'd treasured. But now, maybe it can be different and I can read Lewis again.

It's not that C.S. Lewis is technically the best writer I've ever read. And it's not that his works are so terribly profound, but I derive a sense of comfort from Lewis. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is dedicated to a child named Lucy (Owen Barfield's daughter, I think). And Lewis in the dedication says that someday when she's old enough to appreciate fairy stories again, she can take the book down from the shelf and read it. And when I read, I think I become that Lucy, and Lewis's works are doing for me all the things that Lewis and his friend Tolkien say that fairy stories should do. I see the world and my position in it in a new and delightful way. I'm so thankful to be able to return to that experience, that sort of reading. Maybe the lesson here is that I should not do more academic work on Lewis, that I should treasure that inexplicable something that he is to me and hide it away in my heart. Right now I am not sure.

A Wasted (?) Day

So today was it. I was going to plan out my semester, set goals, decide what I wanted and needed to read. Only all of that didn't happen, at least not to the extent that I'd hoped. I woke up with a sinus thing and took Benadryl, so I slept much of the day. And that's not so bad, I guess. And I just want to go to bed now, although it's only5:00ish.

But I did get some goals set, some lists made. I guess I am frustrated that there never seems to be the time to do all I want to do. How am I supposed to work into the day or even the week time to work and read and write and exercise and pray and cook and socialize and do volunteer work? Why can't I find the time for all the things I want to do? I guess this is my perfectionism coming out, isn't it? I always think that I should somehow be able to do more; I require of myself more than I would of other people. I want good enough to be good enough somehow. But that so rarely happens.

So here I sit, feeling like the day was mostly wasted because the weather was too icky to leave the house and because I didn't accomplish all I wanted to. I hate ending the day with this feeling. I want to learn to be satisfied, to say that I did what I could, given the circumstance and to be OK with that, but that is so hard for me. I want to focus on what I did accomplish. I thought about priorities and what I want to do daily and weekly with my time. (I tend to reassess these things often, but especially as a new semester starts.)

It's times like this that I want friends. I want to call A.H. knowing that he'll tell me that I am going enough. He'll remind me that while teaching full-time, I still managed to finish my dissertation. Or I want to call C. who will remind me that I'm like this academic-super-babe who keeps her work going, no matter the dissappointment. Maybe it's good that I simply remind myself of these friends who, I know, believe all these things of me, even when I don't believe them of myself.

Would it be too corny if tomorrow or the next day, I were to post my goals, etc? I always have this thing about wanting to articulate to someone else what it is I'm trying to accomplish, with the idea that if I verbalize it and that someone knows, I'll be more likely to follow through.

But I do follow through with so much. Why must I focus on my shortcomings? Why can't I say, hey, I finished a Ph.D. in the midst of all sorts of personal drama? Or hey, my lift may not be perfect, but every single day (well, most days) I make a difference in the world?

Oh well, don't worry. I'll get over it. Maybe I will call A.H. or C. or even my brother just to hear a friendly voice. That's all I really want. Maybe the bottom line is that I miss being near those people I love the most.

On NOT Reading What I "Should" Be Reading

There are all these things I think I should be reading (or rereading) because I think they would be emotionally or spiritually or psychologically nourishing for me, but I am just avoiding them. And I don't know why. I know that there's a part of me that somehow needs to reread C.S. Lewis's Till We Have Faces, his most brilliant piece of fiction, yet I'm going to log off and watch a Bette Davis movie instead. Why am I doing this? Why am I immersing myself in a Joyce Carol Oates novel that I no longer even enjoy instead of reading the thing that I know will speak to my soul? Is it simply that the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak? I don't think it's that simple. I think I'm avoiding the reading that could cause emotional discomfort, eventhough I believe that from such discomfort comes growth and renewal. Oh well, I think that I'll think about it tomorrow, maybe compile a list of books that I think will be good for me emotionally and spiritually right now. I'm open to suggestions, of course. Carina, I do have the new Didion, but I'm avoiding it for the same reasons. Yes, well tomorrow, I'll get my act together. I'll plan it all out. I'll list what it is that I think would benefit me to read. Shall I post my list here? If I do, then each of you will somehow, even if it's internally, hold me accountable, so there's a risk there.

In fact, one of my larger projects for tomorrow is to put together a schedule of sorts. With the new semester starting, I want to decide what's important for me to do each day or with regualrity--reading my Bible, yoga, meditation, eating healthy stuff--and then get going on Monday with it all. It's so hard. More tomorrow.

Love and Happiness,

Drennan

Winter in Vermont

So you all know that I'm really, really a Californian. And when I moved to Vermont, taking my "dream job" in a non-dream location at less-than-dream pay, no one really warned me about winter. Last year, I felt like I needed Winter Living for Dummies or The Idiot's Guide to Winter in New England. (Let me point this out: Vermont is New England; northern New York, only 20 miles away, is not) When I was mailed my contract, there was not a hand out explaining what winter was like and how people get through it. So I'm attempting to lay it all out for you, lest anyone of you step unsuspecting and ignorant into Vermont winters.

My first winter here, everything was new, even interesting. I thought of it as a challenge, and I was bound and determined that I wasn't going to let some abstract "winter" keep me from doing what I wanted to do and living the way I wanted to live. And honestly, I got through it. I survived. It was OK. This year, the thought of winter makes me feel rather run-down.

Sure, there are good things about it. There are days when it's beautiful, like living in a Currier and Ives print. I remember Thanksgiving day. It was snowing, and I drove from the town through the woods to pick up my friend Catherine for Thanksgiving dinner at a friend's home. And it was lovely. The snow was clean and fresh (this before it's been plowed to the side of the road five days straight and has turned a bleak grey); the river ran past snowy banks covered with trees. It's pretty. I grant that. And I enjoy the beauty of it. And I feel that surge of artistic impluse that makes me want to photograph all the beauty, and even the ugliness, that I see.

But then there are the day to day practicalities. For instance--dry skin. I've lived much of my life in climates with relatively dry summers. But dry skin was never something I thought about all that much. Now it's like this enemy to be fought daily. Burt's Bees products are my new best friends. Especially useful is the Burt's Bees Hand Salve--they call it "the defender." This is a great, great product. And so every night, after washing my face, I sit in front of the television slathering it on my poor, chapped, cracked hands. The Burt's Bees Lemon Cuticle Cream helps too. These products, though not expensive, are worth twice what they cost. (Ok, now I sound like an info-mercial for Burt's Bees, but it's a line of products that I truly believe in, especially for the Vermont winters.)

The other thing that no one mentioned, and this isn't all bad, is that the sun rises about 7:30 and sets about 4:30. I know--we are past the solstice now, so the days are getting longer. But let me tell you, the nights are long, long, long. Some days I like that. There's something cozy about it. I love the idea (and even the reality) of letting a pot of soup simmer in the kitchen while I read and write. There's something almost romantic about holing up inside and drinking tea and doing all the solitary, intellectual, or creative things that I do. But psychologically, there's also something difficult about it. I generally like to get up very early in the morning. 5:30 isn't too early for me. But sometimes I wake up, start my morning routine, and think, "It won't be light for hours yet."

OK, so the other thing is contending with the ice and snow itself. In the past three weeks I've slipped and fallen on the ice twice. It's almost funny, because I did not hurt myself, but I live in fear of slipping, trying to break my fall, and in the process, breaking my wrist. Both times I slipped, I really wasn't wearing appropriate shoes. So there's another thing--before leaving the house, one has to think, "Do these shoes provide the traction necessary to coping with walking around outside?" Even taking the dogs out can be treacherous. In fact, one of the times I fell, I was taking the dogs out. Imagine me: in my jammies and a coat, wearing Birkenstock clogs, two boston terriers pulling in opposite directions on their leashes, me falling on a patch of ice.

Then some days, one needs to add an extra 15 minutes or so to travel time. The car has to warm up (that's assuming it starts; when it's 15 below, it's iffy). And warming up the car isn't that big of a deal. But scraping the ice off the windshield is. Brushing off snow, even inches of it, is a breeze. But scraping, scraping, scraping ice and frost is a pain. It takes longer than you think, and it's more physical work that I'd have realized. So there I am, dressed in a nice skirt, because I'm on my way to work and I do sometimes make an attempt to look professional, wearing my snow boots. I'm scraping away, as my boots are filling up with snow. Naturally, I'm wearing one of those fun winter hats, but my ears are still cold. I'm still scraping away. I'm wearing these super-industrial strength gloves, because I fear things like frost bite. Still scraping away, while the car warms up. Finally finished scraping, I open the car door, only to realize that when I opened it earlier to let the car warm up, snow has fallen into the car. It's on the floor, on the seat. At this point, I'm cold, there's snow in my shoes, my nose is pink with cold, and I'm so annoyed that I simply sit in the snow that has fallen onto the seat.

No one explained all this to me. I know that I should focus on the positives, and there are certainly positivies. I love wearing scarves and hats, especially scarves and hats that match. I love the excuse for crocheting scarves! I'm even learning to knit. I love the culinary possibilities: soup is so much more interesting when it's about 5 degrees out. I make chili about once a month, and it somehow tastes better than it did in California. Snow, unlike rain, is nearly silent. I love lying in bed at night and watching the snowfall out my window. It's like existing inside a snow globe. But some days, especially at 7:00am when I'm on my way to work, I just want to cry. Having a garage now seems like this amazing luxury.

Maybe the best part of it is that once mid-May arrives, I'll appreciate spring more than I ever did in California.