It’s bitterly cold out, with a windchill of -25. Our university has a late start this morning, with nobody coming in till noon today. That’s right in time for my classes, which are all in the afternoon today.
I don’t like days like this. I like my routine, and if my routine gets disrupted, I wish they’d disrupt it all the way and give me a day off. I understand where they’re coming from — losing half a day of instruction is not as bad as losing the whole day, and the temperatures are going up (to a -15 windchill). Just because I function well with a change in my routine doesn’t mean I like it.
Right now, I am burned out on writing. Nothing I write seems interesting; everything feels like a slog. I am swamped with negative self-talk that tells me I can’t write. I avoid writing. I have no ideas that possess me.
I miss my flow activity. I miss my desire to make something good out of a pile of words. I miss writing, but not enough to muscle through my negative feelings.
I want to do nothing today. Absolutely nothing. I want to store up the nothingness so that when I go through my busy week, I feel rested and open to whatever the week throws at me.
It’s hard for me to do nothing. I will end up doing something, even if it’s reading Quora all day (a waste of time; I would probably accomplish more by napping). I will check on the plants in the basement and, if I feel bored enough, I will possibly write. That’s the only thing that gets me writing these days — absolute boredom, and my writing is desultory and not flowing.
If it were possible to store up sleep, I would take a nap. But napping will keep me awake at night, and I can’t afford to miss my lifetime sleep.
I will end up emulating the example of my cats, who do nothing for hours a day. Right now, Chloe is laying on the arm of my chair, cuddling up against me. I could certainly do worse.
My teenage self was traumatized. A childhood of irregular parenting, threats, and molestation will do that to a person. So will bullying at school. I had experienced all, and I became convinced of my unworthiness. It didn’t help that I was overweight, highly intelligent, and hopelessly awkward.
High school was a little better, with a reprieve from the bullying. I didn’t have any close friends, but at least I didn’t have active enemies. And I discovered extracurricular activities, like theatre and choir, and I did well at them. Still, it was a hellacious time for me. High school is filled with popularity contests (I was the polar opposite of popular), first loves (mine was unrequited), and future plans (at least I had that down — I wanted to go to college more than anything).
I survived high school, and then I went to college, where I finally found people like myself (nerds). I never felt like I truly belonged anywhere, but I found places where I fit in. College changed my life.
If I had my teenage self sitting in front of me, I would tell her that things will get better, that high school wasn’t life but a road block to get over. The high school experience isn’t real — going to prom with someone didn’t mean true love, and even true love dissolved in weeks (except for my unrequited crush, who married his high school sweetheart). The popularity will fade and have no meaning in one’s life. There are things that matter more, like finding one’s true self and navigating the world. I would be tempted to give her one glimpse of her future life, but I wouldn’t do so, because I want her future to be a surprise to her. A pleasant surprise.
I remember being single. It was a few years back, but I was single for much of my adult life. Valentine’s Day was rough back then, because it was just a reminder that I did not have a romantic relationship.
I have been in a bad marriage. Valentine’s Day was a reminder that other people were in a better situation than I was.
I don’t like Valentine’s Day. It seems to exist so that women in relationships can show off what they received as presents, while men spend money on these gifts. At the same time, I enjoy getting the flowers and going out to eat with my husband. I’m a hypocrite in this regard.
I feel for the people who are looking for someone and failing. I feel for the ones who don’t feel secure in their relationships. And I admire the hell out of those people who make the holiday their own — valentines to friends, Galentine’s Day, random sticky notes with hearts across campus. I have nothing against spreading the love.
Meetings seem like an inefficient way of giving out information. The joke “Can’t this be done in an email?” applies here. Email can do most of it. My brain outpaces the meeting, and I find myself using the spaces between words to try to escape.
People repeat themselves in meetings. I just sat through a meeting where we spent ten minutes listening to two parties make the same point over and over, in almost the same words. It was like sitting through an avant-garde play, only I would have enjoyed the absurdity of the play.
I am fortunate that my immediate superiors keep their meetings as short as possible, and cover many items by email. They have even been known to cancel meetings if not enough business has accumulated by then. One of my standing committee meetings has a lot of work involved, so it’s not usually boring. I find myself relieved of a lot of meeting tedium, for which I’m thankful.
I might have mentioned before that I have a grow room in my basement to coax seeds into seedlings for the garden. I planted some early seeds on the second of February, and most of them have shown at least a little growth. I have cardoon (a relative of artichoke, except you eat the leaf stalks), mountain mint, yarrow, hyssop, lovage, lavender, and rosemary in a 72-cell seedling tray.
The lavender and rosemary are going very slowly, but both have at least one seedling up. The cardoon might need to be transplanted sooner rather than later because it’s big. I didn’t think the cardoon would come up so soon because I’ve had such bad luck with it before, but no, it popped up like the alarm clock had just gone off.
Growing seedlings helps me through a cold winter. Whether it’s the thrill of growing green things, the brightness of a room full of fluorescent grow bulbs, or the reminder that Spring will eventually arrive, it’s one of the best things for the winter blahs I’ve done.
One thing that worries me, though, is that I’m not writing. I’m burned out on writing, and have a lot of doubt about how good my writing is. But at least I have a hobby to sustain me.
My original dream home was the home I grew up in. I grew up in an older, architect-designed (as opposed to kit home) place with big bedrooms and plenty of project space in the basement. It was full of beautiful wooden trim and old metal heating registers and high ceilings. My parents did a lot of things with it I wouldn’t have, like torn out butler’s cabinets and bookcases built into the walls, but it was a beautiful house when we finally refinished it.
The house I currently live in is an echo of that house, a newer house (built 1919 rather than 1906), with simpler trim and a dining room set off from the living room by glass-paned French doors. The build is similar, although there are only three bedrooms instead of four.
My dream home has changed over the years, as I have gotten older and look forward to getting older still. My current dream home would be all on one level to help with mobility issues. It would be universal design, where the design would facilitate living independently without looking institutional. No stairs, accessible bathrooms, open floorplan, lever-style door knobs, and the like. It would also be energy efficient, perhaps built into the side of a hill or with passive solar heating design. A dream home would have a rocket mass stove in the living room to heat up the area and provide a focal point for the room (they’re very pretty pieces of masonry). And it would have a greenhouse where I could start seeds for the year, and a yard I could landscape.
I dream big. I’m not going to find a house like this, especially if I stay in Maryville. I could build one, but it wouldn’t sell well if I ever had to leave it. Plus I’m not rich, and this would be an expensive build. So my dream house is best left to dreaming about.
Daily writing prompt
Are you patriotic? What does being patriotic mean to you?
In the US, the right-wing has laid claim to the word “patriotic”. It has become associated with a culture obsessed with guns and taking away others’ rights. I have a knee-jerk reaction to the word now.
But America has had a long history of civil rights, and until this administration has been making steady progress on civil rights. Not fast enough, but in its absence definitely missed. If I am willing to fight for the days of civil rights, does this make me patriotic?
I think so. I think I can call myself a patriot wanting to bring back America’s days of being that shining light on the hill rather than the shitscape it currently is.
Words Like Me 