This is all it took today

Dear Gmail: I would love to consider including David Gillner. More than anything in this world, I would love to do that. In fact, that is all I think of. I consider including him at the dinner table when I count the plates. I consider including him when I find a piece of great new music, and when I hear Danish on the train and wonder what it means. I consider including him in the group of us traveling together, and in the list of Christmas presents, and the people who should be wishing me a happy birthday. I consider including David Gillner in choosing the names for my children and writing my eulogy. I consider including him in the tally of who should ride in which car to the funeral, only to realize it is his.

The thing these days, however, is that I can't include him. I wish your fancy algorithms were right this time, but death does not figure too well in your formula. How about if you consider fucking yourself.

Lord Have Mercy

I have been speaking to a very godly man recently, much to my frustration. He is very rational and intelligent and has a very systematic and air tight theology that is very difficult to penetrate if you disagree with him. In fact disagreeing with him often ends, for me, in feeling unintelligible or irrational. I admit that I do have an irrational streak in me yet I reject the negative associations with that word. I have come to realize that there are two different types of folks in this world, those who are lovers of beauty and those who are lovers of logic. Now I believe that neither of these are inherently better than the other yet both have a lot to learn from one another. My wife ,for example, is a lover of logic and I am a lover of beauty. She needs to understand the systematic rationale for believing in a certain idea before she will believe it where as I will often use my intuition to determine whether something is true or not and then possibly come up with rational reasons afterward( or not, much to the frustration of lovers of logic) The goal, I believe, is to attempt not to look down on one another's orientation yet learn from one another.

However, I have noticed in my conversations with this godly man that we both are very set in our ways. He with his arguments and I with my intuitions, and we come to very different conclusions on matters. Despite being confident in my beliefs I find that after talking to this man I start to wonder how one of us, if not both of us, are wrong and how on earth are we going to be able to change if we are both so stuck in our ways? At the present moment I don't have any inkling of changing my positions and I am pretty sure this man is not going to change his mind. So it seems that we are at an impasse. Which scares me. I think in some sense we all think we are right about what we believe and it seems like it would take a miracle for either one of us to change our beliefs. There is probably no argument that I could muster that would change this man's mind and I have to admit I have my doubts whether he could show me any beauty that would sway me. So how then do we change? Do we simply wait for the resurrection and the Deus ex machina? Or God, do you have any miracles up your sleeve? Lord have mercy on us and our deeply held convictions.

Why I don't blog about academia

Somebody asked me today why I rarely blog about my graduate program or the work that I do at the university. It is a fair question - I have the rare privilege of studying something I truly care about, and I get paid to think and write about these things in my job... So why not write about that?

Reason #1: I have a pervasive fear of turning into a boring academic whose friends flee at the very mention of the words "dissertation" or "research findings." I realize that many of my friends and family still shake their heads in disbelief at my choice to stay in school for any longer than absolutely necessary, and it would just not be fair to bore you with the details of university governance structures or strategies for graduate employability.

Reason #2: I stare at a computer and write academic papers for my job. Then I go to class, where I listen to academic lectures, or write assignments for these classes that require more intense thinking and staring at a computer screen. When I get any time in between these activities, I think and write and tear my hair out over another big academic paper called a dissertation. In the rare occasion when I have it in me to stay at the computer screen just a bit longer to write a blog post, theoretical frameworks or research paradigms are about the last thing I want to think about.

That being said, I have recently been inspired to chip away at this self-constructed wall between work and life by two distinct sparks. One of them was an article by C.W. Mills on the sociological imagination, which is academic in nature and so will remain undiscussed until my inspiration turns into reality. ;) The second spark is my new friend Thomas, who is a political scientist and an expert on the Middle East. He has a vast and deep knowledge of his subject area, and he consciously breaks outside of academic circles by writing for newspapers, submitting corrections about untrue press reports, posting headlines and commentaries on Facebook, attending protests, etc. He has perfected the ability of bringing his knowledge to bear on the life that goes on around him every day, be it the protests in Tunisia, unrest in Egypt, or the arrest of a Chechen man in Austria. He has inspired me to bring my daily work to bear on what I see in the news or talk about with friends. My field, after all, is education, which affects pretty much everyone. So I conclude this post about why I don't blog about academia with the concession that it is perhaps only right that I should.

Rachel getting pregnant

My friend Rachel is pregnant. She and her husband Darren are the first in our immediate group of friends to pass this big milestone, and Rachel is the first close friend whose pregnancy I've gotten to witness in a day-to-day fashion. We used to joke around about who would have kids first, but it was always rather obvious it would be her - my labor phobia combined with our itinerant life plan pretty much guaranteed that. We even once went to an art fair together, and I bought a card especially for her that said in big letters "I'm glad you're having a baby," and in small letters "and I'm not." After the card gathered dust for a few years, I finally got to dig it up a couple of weeks ago, and I had a moment of profound awe as I placed it in the mailbox. I've had a similar feeling every time I see Rachel with her tummy slightly bigger than the week before. While the message of the card still holds true, and I do not feel anywhere close to ready to join in the club, I find it moving and, well yes, sort of epic, that my friend is becoming a part of a story that will reach so far beyond her and be told long after she is gone. To her little baby boy, she will be the first Woman. She will be somebody's mom, that defining figure he will associate with warmth and love; the mysterious force he will one day try to describe to a partner or decipher in therapy like I still try to decipher my parents. Maybe one day he will say to me: You knew my mom before I was born. What was she like back then? And I will answer - yes, I knew her. I saved a card for her for three years before you were born, saw her belly grow each week, and helped paint your baby room in their first house. Let me tell you about the art she made everywhere she turned, from stationery to food. In fact, let me tell you about the time...

I know kids don't usually ask these sorts of questions about their parents, at least until all their parents' friends are dead; I know these sorts of narratives are more common in literature than in real life. Yet I can't help but realize the good fortune of having friends close enough that the birth of their kids is a major event in my own life, inspiring dreamy and tender thoughts about their future as well as my own.

Happiness for Benjamin

My brother is working in the Netherlands for a couple of months, and he feels lonely there all by himself. Today he asked me to send some happiness his way, so here is my best attempt. Dear Benjamin:

Remember the long summer days when we were little kids? Even though mom could hardly get us out of bed on school days, as soon as school was over, we jumped out of bed at first crack of dawn, and we ran down to the back yard to play. Remember how we used to make soup and magic potions out of the berries that grew on the hedge, and soak in the old metal tub when we got hot? Once when you were just a toddler, your sisters and I dressed you in one of our old bathing suits. It was hot pink and very girlie, but you thought it was the greatest thing in the world to look just like your big sisters. We still have a picture somewhere of you in the pink suit, splashing in the tub with a big grin on your face. Those days were nothing but happiness, and it didn't matter that rust was peeling off the old tub or that our family was poor.

Growing up, of course, robs us of the utterly carefree joys of childhood. But its glimmers are still around you in the simple things - the rays of morning sunshine, the satisfaction of a good meal, a hearty laugh with a friend, the way humans still fall in love despite thousands of years of heartbreak. In a way, your ability to feel dissatisfaction or emptiness is the other side of a coin that has a happy face. Until very recently - and in many parts of the world it hasn't changed to this day - all but a few people have experienced heartache and toil as such obvious aspects of daily life that they know little else. You, my brother, feel the loneliness of this season because you have known many other, sunnier ones. The best way I can send you some happiness in this cold time of year is by stating it loud and clear that this too shall pass - so you might as well get out there and earn yourself a better next season. Remembering this is how I survive in this dreadfully frigid place with six-month winters - and you know just how much I hate the cold. Winter is much easier to live through if it's in the shadow of the coming summer. It's not endless, so I might as well enjoy some sledding or snow fights! So think of the warm summer days in our back yard when it gets cold, and I hope they warm you up on the inside so you can put up a snow fight or two before it's all over.

Couch time

Today marked the beginning of a highly unusual week. In fact, I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a week such as this one.

I am not working or going to class, and I don't have any plans for the next seven days.

When I realized this today, it gave me an odd feeling. I couldn't remember the last time this happened! Of course, I remember the last time I was off work for a week: my friend and my sister were visiting, and I was showing them my new home on this side of the Atlantic. The time before that, I took time off to travel to Poland to work at an arts festival. In the last two years, there have been a few week-long research trips or visits with family. But as much as I rack my brain, I can't remember the last time I was home for a week with nothing urgent on my to-do list.

Before I moved to America, week-long periods of rest or mere inactivity seemed a lot more common. It may have had to do with the fact that I lived in the world of academia, but I live in the same kind of world here. It may also have to do with being in a doctoral program now, so perhaps what I say needs to be taken with a grain of salt. Yet when people ask me if there is anything that surprised me about life in this country, the pace of life is usually the first thing that comes to mind. Americans work a lot more and take less time off than people in Poland. While I admire the work ethic I see here, I find that it sometimes goes too far - people seem to take pride in always staying busy, never missing a day of work, or giving back paid vacation days, which creates a whole culture of overwork-ness. What gets lost along the way is time to just be, to sit back and reflect on the purpose of all that frantic activity, be silent enough to pray, to remember friends and think new thoughts.

It is perhaps a mark of my advanced acculturation that the first thing I thought of today was making a to-do list for my week off. There is laundry to be done, my heinously messy closet, shelves I got for Christmas last year still waiting to be hung, heaps of unanswered emails, a Christmas letter that is already late... I didn't make a list though. I sat on this couch for most of the day, at times immersed in a novel about nothing academic whatsoever, and at times mildly uncomfortable in the silence. Tomorrow shall worry about itself - today I had the good sense to leave the worrying to the couch.

Photo courtesy of Becca

A Day in the Life

For one day in November, Billy and I had a chance to participate in an amazing art project made possible by our dear friend Becca. It all started a couple of months ago, when I was looking at our wedding pictures and the thought occurred to me that the photos most of us have in our albums are taken on extraordinary occasions that represent a departure from what life is normally like on a daily basis. There are pictures of weddings, vacations, Christmases, graduations - important days that happen just once. Most of our life, meanwhile, happens between those times, monotonous and undocumented. Yet it's those repetitive days full of repetitive activities that constitute most of our lives, and those things often go undocumented. In five years, will I remember the shape of the leaves on the sidewalk on my way to the bus? Will I be able to picture our first apartment, the look of my bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth every morning, the slant of afternoon light through the kitchen window?

Some time later, I was talking with Becca, who is an amazingly talented artist and the owner of a small business called Liminality Photography. She was telling me about a wedding she had shot, and I shared my recent thoughts with her - how it's a great thing to have a record of the grand days, but I'm sad that we don't capture the mundane ones. That conversation was how the idea of a Day in the Life photo shoot was born. For one day in November, Becca followed us around for an entire day - waking up, walking around our neighborhood, going to work, having late night drinks with friends. It is a record of not just one day, but a unique season of life turned into art. We're so grateful to Becca for creating this, and our hope all along was that these photos would inspire others to document the precious details of our daily lives.





































All photographs copyright of Liminality LLC

Two Sides to Every Story

I recently received a phone call from a client's father who was irate about something I discussed in session with his son the previous evening. I explained to him my rationale for saying what I had said and how it was beneficial from a therapeutic standpoint yet he was adamant that I was in the wrong and demanded I apologize to him and his son or I could no longer work with their family. I could not in good conscious do what he asked so I was fired from that client. I was of course comforted and supported by a number of fellow therapists and friends who said that I was right in my actions and my therapeutic stance and that this man was just a big bully. I am not going to say that I didn't make any mistakes yet am confident in the piece I held my ground on. Yet what disquiets me is that I am guessing this man also has a number of therapists and friends surrounding him telling him how right he is and how I am a horrible therapist. I run into this dynamic often where there are two sides of the story, often in the context of relationship, and it amazes me how both can be equally convincing and for all intents and purposes both can be "true". It is a myth that if we only apply the same laws and measures of reason that we can make a definitive judgment of Truth and all come out with the same conclusions. (Thank you modernity) We live in an age of reason like no other in the history of the world yet there are still just as many arguments between people and just as much hurt caused due to different perspectives that do not accept one another. And I think this is how things are going to continue. It makes me wonder what it would be like after the resurrection when the lion lays down with the lamb? I imagine there are still going to be differences of opinion as we will, I am guessing, still be subjective beings with different likes. (I hope so at least. or maybe everyone will finally realize that Green is the best color and Chipotle the best burrito!) I think the difference will be that we will recognize that there are different perspectives and that those are valid and worthy of respect. Love will cover over a multitude of perspectives. But in the meantime that is not always the case and leads to so much sadness...

A Short History of Patriarchy

Being the enlightened and emancipated couple that we are (well, and strapped for money as well), Billy and I decided this year to take turns cooking.

Before that, I made most of the food for two simple and related reasons:

1. I'm better at it
2. I genuinely enjoy cooking
(As in, I admire vegetables at the farmer's market like some people admire sculptures in a museum, and there are few things I enjoy more than hosting a feast of a dinner party for friends)

So for as long as I had time to do it, I gladly reigned over the kitchen.

The time condition changed radically when I started my doctoral program. Being the enlightened and emancipated couple that we are, we both thought it was not fair for just one of us to do all the cooking when we both work about the same. So we decided to take turns - he cooks for a week, I cook for a week, and that way we can shop for whatever ingredients we need for the whole week. By the end of the first month, I began to feel like the bones of patriarchalism that I thought I'd buried a long time ago were sticking out of their shallow graves right and left.

It was not Billy who dug them up, either. As soon as his schedule got a little busier and preparing meals became an extra stretch, I was overcome by a sense of guilt and responsibility. Whenever it appeared like cooking was causing him any stress, I jumped right in to rescue him and say that it was ok, I could just do it, don't worry about it. Somewhere deep down, I had it ingrained in me that even though it's great that he's "HELPING", it is ultimately MY job to feed the household. I kept doing this even though it left me tired and at times bitter that "I do more of the work around here". It took a few long conversations to make me realize that my constant rescuing did not help either one of us - it actually made Billy feel terrible about not doing his part in our house.

All this made me think again about the meaning and relative novelty of domestic equality. My deep-seated sense of responsibility is probably a thousand years old. It took birth in a cave or shack, at a time when the roles of men and women were defined by their physical attributes and how those translated into their ability to survive in a hostile world. Over time, these differences were translated into timeless roles sanctioned by deities of all sorts and shapes. At one point in the past, this role division allowed our species to survive, so it became entrenched as the ultimate norm.

It reminds me of something I noticed about my grandparents a while ago. To survive the war and the hard times that followed, they went into a kind of survival mode - a total focus on the basic necessities of life that cut out marginalities like emotions for the sake of overcoming external threats. That strategy probably saved their lives, but when the war was over, they were so used to functioning this way that they went on in the same way, bringing about alienation and lack of intimacy. In survival mode, there is often only one right way to go, unanimous action is crucial, and dissent can be fatal. This is how you function in crisis - but if it becomes the long term operating procedure for a marriage, for raising children and sustaining a family, the same thing that once saved your life becomes deadly. I can't help but think it's the same with patriarchalism - it's a strategy that once worked very well for us, but in a changed reality it threatens to erode the well-being we've fought so hard to achieve. That is what happens, for instance, when a woman is expected to still take care of the home and raise children even though she works equally to the man outside the home.

I've found that the adaptation of operating procedures to new realities can be especially difficult for people with strong religious beliefs. As people of faith, we believe the Divine Being revealed Him/Her-Self to humanity, and if He/She did, isn't it reasonable to assume that the Revelation was singular, unchanging, and once-and-for-all? If so, both men and women working equally outside the home a shift to a post-industrial economy don't mean a thing, because gender roles have been defined once and for all by God.

Within my own religious tradition, I find two strands that delightfully subvert this gateway to fundamentalism. First is the underestimated and underinterpreted biblical Wisdom literature, where we often see two contradictory statements right next to each other. Which one is right? Which is the divine will? It depends! Wisdom is not a once-and-for-all formula, but rather the ability to choose the right formula for the right situation, God's redemptive gift for fundamentalizing humans. The second is the Incarnation itself - the ultimate act of Revelation was not a holy rule book or codex, but a Person - thoughtful in solitude at dawn in the Galilean hills, tongue-in-cheek at a wedding in Cana, mad as a hatter at the cleansing of the Temple. Proclaiming a message that notoriously throws our expectations upside down - last being first, poor being rich, humble exalted, the Kingdom all unlike what we're used to.

This incarnate wisdom of God (incidentally or not quite so incidentally personified as a woman - Sophia - in biblical wisdom literature) is ultimately why I continue to practice taking it easy on the couch while Billy cooks, and telling myself it's ok. It's not as hard as it first looked.

None Are Righteous

I am personally not a believer in the concept of "inherited sin" in the sense that all humans are "born sinful" and therefore deserve to die for their inherited ontological sin. This idea has its roots in Augustine's view that sin was transferred biologically through sex, which in turn was borrowed from the gnostic idea that the the body is evil and the curse of physicalness was past on through procreation. Yet this morning I was thinking how we are all born into sin. We were having a discussion around breakfast and hypothesizing whether it was sinful or not to own a cappucino machine. (My father in law was railing against material excess) I made the statement that I thought it was sinful to own an iPhone (or any cell phone for that matter) due to the Coltan necessary to make the device, which comes from war torn countries such as the Democratic Republic of Congo and is used to fund dictators, warlords, and rapists. My anti-civilizationalist friend would make the argument that we are constantly complicit in the rape and murder and deforestation around the world, not directly but by virtue of supporting a system that facilitates these crimes. In fact, being born in the United States is to be "born into sin", that is, born into a sinful system that you cannot help but be a part of. (What do you think of that Augustine?)

It is pretty overwhelming once you start to think about all the ways in which you support an unjust system and how no matter what you do, you are supporting the death, pain, and destruction of thousands of people. This I think is where the need for grace comes in. God knows that we are hopelessly mired in injustice and She understands that. That doesn't mean that we are "off the hook" and don't have to do anything about it. It means that He frees us from apathy and the feeling that we have failed before we start. She wants us to do our best to bring the kingdom of heaven to this plot of land and spread it like mustard seed. Lord Have Mercy On Us.

The Discipline of Happiness

I have been thinking lately how happiness is really a discipline. If you are not happy or feel unbalanced in life right now, these things are not going to magically appear in front of you someday. We often think "If I can just get that new job" or "If I can just move to a bigger house" or "Once I retire", "Once the kids are out of the house", "Once School is done", "Once I am promoted", "Once I am (Fill in the blank)", THEN oh yes, THEN...I will finally be happy and content and balanced. But this magical moment never comes. Happiness and balance are things that need to be started right now and cultivated as well as sustained by hard work and discipline. I have realized the real need for myself to set aside time during my week for things that I enjoy to do and that give me life. I have found that if I do not set aside time for these things and fight for them, they will always allude me and even if I were to switch jobs, I would find myself in the same position, gasping for breath and wishing I had the time for the things I love. For instance, I would love to write a novel. But this novel is not going to write itself and I doubt that a situation will come along where I will have a few months of free time (unless I get laid off: Knock on wood) to spend on it. If I want to write it, I am going to have to start today, and set aside 10 minutes or 30 minutes and grow space for this hobby. And I will probably put it off until tomorrow (which really means a few months) which is fine, but at least I will know that it is my own choice and I won't be able to complain about how I don't have the time or don't have any hobbies.

Samson

Samson is the name of the new raccoon in our backyard. I have seen him twice now hanging out in the bushes near the fence, just staring at me. This time instead of trying to speak his language ( a mix of squirrel and swahili ), I spoke to him in English in hopes that he has picked it up over the years of living among us. I told him that I mean him no harm and will allow him to remain here in peace, provided that he not eat the pumpkins I am trying to grow this fall. It is funny how I just read an article yesterday about how we humans anthropomorphize animals and impose morality upon them. We try to tame them and try to find a kindred spirit within them yet all that is present is the empty and cold eye of nature staring back at us. Killer Whales with cute names turn on their trainers after years of working together, Chimpanzees maul their owners faces after they treat them like sons, and grizzly man's grizzlies eat him and his girlfriend after years of "friendship". We think that sharks are evil and wicked for doing what they are made to do. Yet here I am feeling that same desire within me to talk with our new resident, to connect to the wild as if I had a supernatural power and ability to be understood by the savage beast. I will even name him Samson (It could be a girl for all I know,:) ) And I dream of one day inviting him into our home for tea. Maybe one day I will hear a knock on the door and it will be Samson wanting to come in and talk about relations between our species and the politics of the animals living in the alley. We will wax long and eloquently about the divide between Man and Beast, the prejudices on both sides, the unfair profiling (not all raccoons are thieves of course, they can't help it if they were born with a mask), and of course we will touch on our abuses of the planet, how plastic is causing cancer in so many raccoons these days and how the young ones are getting hooked early, how more and more coons come to the city in search of jobs because their forests are being developed into upscale housing and of course global warming. Yes, we will talk late into the night about the world's problems, decide that there is nothing that we can do about it except live a good and simple life, and then...He will bite my face off.