I see ‘having it all’ as a matter of contentment. Is one satisfied with what one has? Typically, no. A bit of research shows that Americans want 10% more income on average no matter what their income is. A vague discontent seems to be the lot of the US.
I don’t think of ‘having it all’ as a material-laden destination other than having one’s needs and a reasonable number of their wants met. How that looks depends on the individual. In the US, that means a house; other countries (I’ve heard) differ in that. I see ‘having it all’ as a matter of satisfaction with lifestyle, which is more than just possessions. It’s friends, family, the safety of where one lives, rewarding pastimes and the like.
I am satisfied with my life. I have a solid marriage with someone who I can be myself with. We own a house and our cars are in reasonable shape.
I have a good job that challenges me. My hobby (writing) gives me plenty of flow activity. I have some health challenges, but they’re under control (except for the arthritic knees). I could use more friends, but as I don’t get out much, I don’t know what we’d be doing.
The book is going slowly; I’m writing an average of 1000 words a day, rather than my typical 2000. It’s a stubborn book; it doesn’t know if it wants to be written. I’m writing it mainly because my husband suggested I should when I told him I had no more books to write.
Writing is no longer the fever it was when I started writing. I have gone through all the obsessions, all the stories that clamored to be written. Writing now is not exactly a trudge, but it’s no longer the force it was when I started. I suspect this is natural, a consequence of time or age. Or of the change in medication I went through about a year ago, and then it’s a matter of finding my equilibrium again.
I miss the writing obsession. It gave me a sense of purpose, a feeling that I labored for something bigger than myself. Maybe it was delusional; maybe it’s a good thing to lose the fever. I miss it, however.
I have too much stuff. I have wearied of a materialistic lifestyle, although I don’t know what I’d do without the gadgets I have amassed over the years (sarcasm). I have some collectibles, and a collection of coffee pots (which I do use occasionally). I have one possession that I treasure more than any, however, and that is a curio cabinet that my dad made for me.
It is in the form of a primitive pie safe, with no carving and no curves. Where there is punched tin in a pie safe, my dad put panes of glass. The cabinet is made from wood scavenged from a packing crate, and the glass was scavenged from the old windows that had been replaced in the house I grew up in. It’s stained in antique oak stain.
The only thing it’s lacking is my dad’s signature. My dad died several years ago, and I would have loved that reminder of him. But I have my dad’s work, and it is my most treasured possession.
In the nightmare, I am new at the college, which is supposed to be the University of Illinois or SUNY Oneonta (both places I’ve worked), but looks like neither of them. I am halfway across campus from where I should be, and I have a class in twenty minutes. But then something goes wrong — I don’t have my computer or my class notes or I have to come up with a lecture in the next few minutes. I can’t find my office or, for that matter, the classroom because I haven’t been there all semester. I have no way of telling my students that I’m going to be late.
I suspect the dream is shaming me for being unprepared. But it has nothing to do with being unprepared. Right now my workload is light and I’m on top of it, being summer “vacation”. I just did my grading for the day. I will write later, after I water the plants on my porch. I might go out to Starbucks. I don’t have any “work work” I can do right now because my research is on hold till fall and I already have fall classes put together.
I suppose I feel guilty for relaxing. This is definitely part of what is known as the Protestant work ethic in the US — we have to be working or else we’re debased. I think I’ll put my feet up later and thumb my nose at the nightmare.
When I was younger, I didn’t think much about legacies. I needed all my energy to go from day to day. At the same time, I wanted to do something big to be known by. I didn’t know what that would be, but I was going to do it. Oh, to be young and bipolar!
In my 50s, I wanted my stories to be my legacy. I still do, but very few people have read them, and they’re not picking up very much traction. So the messages in my stories remain unread, and that will not be my legacy.
I never thought much about my students being my legacy, mostly because I am not a popular teacher. I’m not by any means a bad professor, but since being prescribed meds, I am not the high-energy, zany professor I was before. (I’m also not the depressed professor I was before.) But maybe this is short-changing my abilities and my relationship with my students.
I am now convinced I will never know what my legacy is. Perhaps it will be simply being a kind person. Part of being bipolar and being medicated has been realizing how ordinary a person I am.
I competed in the Voice of Democracy contest held by the Veterans of Foreign Wars Auxiliary, which was held in the high schools. I had to write an essay about the topic “What Does Freedom Mean to Me”. I was born in a rather conservative town to rather liberal parents, and I turned out more liberal than they did.
When I got the assignment to write the essay, I included a popular topic of the day, Selective Service Registration. Or more to the point, protesting Selective Service Registration. At about this time, all males turning 18 were required to sign up for Selective Service, from which they would be drafted for military service if the country ever had a draft. Some males were not signing up, and of course the country was enraged. I, as a child during the Vietnam War era, thought I would stand up for their right to protest. In an essay to the VFW. I finally settled on “Freedom is the right to stand up for what one believes in, even if it’s not popular, and accept the consequences.”
When I read the essay to my mother in the kitchen, she said, “Good luck with the ladies at the VFW.”
And then I won the local contest. “They must not have read it,” my mother deadpanned.
I had to compete at the district level, which consisted of reading the essay on radio. I got to read my protest piece over the airwaves by invitation of the women of the VFW. My mother was still laughing. We figured at that level, I would lose to the unctuous young man who compared the country to a family and didn’t even mention freedom, and we were right. But that was okay with me; I made my point on the air and that was enough.
When I was in graduate school, I got hit by a car. I was a pedestrian crossing a street with a friend, and the car merged into traffic — or, rather, merged into me. I had stepped forward when I saw her coming toward me, and I stepped back, but not in time. I rolled over the hood of the car and ended up in a sitting position on the pavement.
“Is your hip okay?” my friend screeched.
“My hip is fine. My leg is broken.” I exuded an eerie sense of calm.
“How do you know?”
“Because when I lift my leg, my foot feels like it’s not going anywhere.”
The woman who hit me had a cell phone (an amazing thing in 1991) and called the ambulance. When they arrived, they bundled me onto a stretcher. “Which hospital do you want to go to?”
“Well, let’s see. Which one does my insurance take?”
“She’s paying for your hospital bills.”
“Ok. Which one has the better cafeteria food?”
“You’re going to Carle. It’s the trauma hospital.”
“Ok.”
I didn’t feel much pain as they loaded me into the ambulance. I felt the bumps. I was pretty sure the only place I was hurt was the leg.
By the time I got out of head-to-toe x-rays, five of my friends were there to see me. They warned me that my parents were on their way from about two hours’ north. I was hurting, and finally a nurse gave me morphine. (I’ve been told that I’m pretty funny on morphine.)
All I had was a broken leg, but about an inch of bone was shattered. I understood they were going to take me to my room and then wait for surgery. As I was being pushed through the ward by a burly red-headed nurse, he grabbed the phone, held it out for me, and said, “You know who this is.” I got an earful from my mother, who was absolutely sure I got hit by the car to stress her out. Then he wheeled me past my room (“there’s your room”) and then to the operating room.
Over the next couple of days, I had many visitors. My friends took it upon themselves to run interference with my mom, who thought they were all very nice people. I was on a morphine drip and utterly hilarious.
I spent the next 8 weeks on mostly bedrest, and I didn’t know why they wouldn’t let me go back to my regular activities until I fell a couple times the first week. Then I spent 6 months on crutches, another surgery to put a bone graft and metal bar in, and three months using a cane. I limped for a good few years; now, I have bad arthritis in my knee from the long-ago injury.
It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. It was probably worse than I thought it was, to be honest. But I survived and made my way through grad school on crutches. And now, other than having to be pat down every time I’m in an airport, I’m doing fine.
I have promised myself I will write 365 days in my blog without a break. So far I’m at 277 days. Right now, I’m at the point where I wonder why I’m doing this. Some days, I have no ideas and the prompts aren’t to my liking. Today is one of those days.
I’m all about Big Audacious Goals. But writing daily for a year is not a Big Audacious Goal. A BAG is more like writing a novel or getting it published, and even that was only true for the first time I’d done it. It’s a goal; I’m sticking with it.
I need a Big Audacious Goal soon. I’ve been through writing a book, getting it published, doing a book fair (locally), publishing the book that was my problem child for a while … I can’t think of anything that represents a new challenge in the way that determines a BAG. The current book is a challenge, but not in the barrier-crossing BAG way.
So I’ll have to stick with my small goal for now, and hopefully get to 365 days of blogging. And then take a break, of course.
I have a PhD in Family and Consumption Economics from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. I received it in 1993, so it was a long time ago. It was probably my biggest sacrifice, spending 7 more years out of the workforce.
It didn’t feel like a sacrifice at all. I was self-supporting throughout grad school (although assistantship pay is hardly extravagant). I relished my time with fellow grad students, and I had time to sit on the Quad and watch people. I did have mood swings during this time and spent some of it depressed, but most of graduate school was idyllic.
To me, sacrifices never feel like sacrifices. They feel like life. In one moment, I am earning much less to make my way through graduate school. In another, I am taking time to help someone else with a class. A choice made, the consequences accepted. Just life.
If I haven’t mentioned, I am working on a book called Hiding in Plain Sight, which is an origin story of Hearts are Mountains, the Archetype commune in Whose Hearts are Mountains. The origin story is not a small thing, because Archetypes are supposed to be solitary beings, so how do they get into a commune together?
The solitary tendency (an inborn taboo) is breaking down among the Earthbound Archetypes, who are exiled from InterSpace by their unsanctioned birth. But Archetypes in gathering are dangerous, in part because they could draw attention to themselves. As practically immortal beings who are stronger than humans, Archetypes’ discovery could end in a war against them. The Council also fears the commune’s numbers because they could go up against the Council of the Oldest. The book is building to a showdown between the commune and the Council of the Oldest.
But first, the main character, anthropologist and Archetype Dr. MariJo Ettner, has been discovered by a human, her research assistant, Alice Johnson. She is in the position of answering Alice’s questions while impressing upon her that she should not tell a soul about Archetypes’ existence. This works great until Alice wants a child by Mari’s adopted son, William. A half-human offspring, born fully adult, may break the secret.
The book is about hiding a culture, a culture that would shake Earth’s foundations were it discovered. And the culture itself, made up of so many ingrained taboos it hardly exists. It’s writing slowly, as I’m largely pantsing it. Wish me luck.
Words Like Me 