Lately, my life has been filled with comments like, "You're the happiest I've ever seen you," or "You just seem so relaxed," and "Something has changed about you." Especially for those that haven't seen me in a while, the change seems almost sudden, as if a light switch has been flipped in my life. But for those I see daily and weekly, the change has been much more of a transition over time, changes being made over months and years in nearly indistinguishable differences. But the scope of those changes collectively have been far from indistinguishable. It is apparent that I am a woman in transition.
There are many possible reason for such a transition. Maybe I'm just getting older, and maybe this is just what happens when a person gets older. Maybe the years of experiences start to add up to an equation that looks much different than the equation of youth. Maybe it's my influences. Marrying one of the calmest people on earth tends to have an effect on one's daily living after all. Maybe a new professional position has the possibility of altering one's entire life. Maybe.
I think the most significant change however, the one with the most impact on a personhood transition of such magnitude, is nothing more than a shift in perspective, a tip in the scale of priorities and how one views such priorities. And after a little contemplation yesterday, I think I am finally able to put words to it.
You see, much of our lives are spent striving. Measuring. Learning how to be the best, or in some cases, just managing to feel good enough. Children are taught that they can be anything they want to be, that they can have it all. But when we grow up and somehow achieve it all (or much of it, anyway), suddenly we look around and realize our own inadequacies. We have the big house but can't keep it clean. We have the good job, but someone else in the office is better at it than we are, and we're all after our boss's job anyway. We got into the grad program but can't live up to the expectations of the rest of the group. Heck, some days, even keeping my inbox or voicemail box clean is too much for me to bear. As a society, we've been taught that the only way to be happy in life is to be enough, to meet the benchmarks, to beat the competition.
And this kind of measuring, toiling, competing life is, in a word, exhausting. It is not uplifting, not energizing, not joy creating. Sure there are moments of exhilaration, successes on projects, promotions or raises, that give us a glimmer that all the measuring against some standard was somehow worth it. But in the end, the perspective drains and destroys us. Why? Because we never can be good enough in all of our areas of measurement all of the time. We just can't. But every missed mark, no matter how small, begins to pick away at us, eat away at our very souls until we are captured in a blanket of disappointments that we've knit around ourselves.
I've spent much of my life pursing the ruler, attempting to always be better than mark on the wall. I am naturally competitive and set my sights high on the professional ladder, the sports ladder, heck, any ladder I could find, I was looking at the top rungs only. It was the central focus of my being for much of my young adult life. And frankly, it's made me miserable. Uptight, combative, jealous, and sad.
There's nothing wrong with being competitive, per se. Nothing wrong with desiring successes, promotions, being good at something. The problem comes when it is our sole aim in life. When the blinders are up and that's all we see - measuring up. Because no matter how driven or focused or competitive we are, we are still, indeed, human. And that humanity limits our abilities to be enough. But do you know what it doesn't limit? Our capacity for joy.
Enter, the new perspective.
When I changed my central focus from being enough to just being, but being with joy, everything, and I do mean everything, looks different. When you can just be, for the sake of joy, you allow yourself the option to not always measure up perfectly, with the realization that that is completely okay. It gives you permission to not feel like a horrible person when the dishes don't get done. It gives you the allowance to enjoy what you are doing without your only focus being the prize at the end. It takes away the gnawing, nagging, pick-away-at-your-soul-ness that the measuring marks do to us because the measuring marks are secondary. Joy is primary.
Right now, life is filled with joy. My husband and I have a comfortable home that is sometimes messy and sometimes clean. We have a baby on the way this spring with not a single product picked out or purchased yet. My job is enjoyable and flexible, and I work with fantastic people to provide some amazing topics to some wonderful young adults. Some days, I screw up the grade book. Some days, I forget announcements I should have made. Some days, I'm late to meetings or miss deadlines. It's part of the journey. Sometimes I succeed on the journey. Sometimes I fail. Either way, I learn on that journey. Either way, the focus is not my ability to get the higher paycheck or the bigger programs (though I still work toward some of those goals). The focus is joy first. And things like serving others, being kind, working with instructors, and managing the details bring me joy regardless of their less than perfect execution.
Eckhart Tolle says, "Life isn't as serious as the mind makes it out to be." This is a profound statement, especially when you learn to apply it. There's nothing forcing you to climb the measurement ladder if there's no joy in the journey toward the top. There's nothing telling you that you must measure up or that you absolutely cannot fail. And there's nothing stealing joy from your life except the way that you perceive life. Joy first. Everything else will follow.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Shrinking World
With just a few weeks to go before the wedding (really?!), Derrick and I find ourselves in conversations about what the future will look like more often than ever before. Most of it is just talk and daydreams and slivers of possibility. What happens next? When the dissertation is finished? When the next academic year is over? Where will we go? What will we do and be?
All this talk has had me thinking and rethinking about not only my own immediate world, but really the whole world. It's a big place, but not as big as I once thought.
Growing up in a small town, I only new one perspective. Small towns were safe, secure, quiet. Kids could run and play all day, ride their bikes down the middle of the street, play in any backyard they wanted. It was a most amazing way to spend a childhood. But with that perspective came a certain perspective of the "other" existence. Cities. As a kid, and even on my way to college as an 18-year-old, I truly believed that if small towns were heaven-like, cities must be hell. Danger, predators, noise, fences, stop lights, traffic...all of it was bad and scary and wrong. Similarly, when growing up within a 15-minute drive of all of the cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, I assumed that's just how the world worked. Everyone got together with their whole giant crazy family for every holiday, every Sunday lunch. And thus, as my logic would tell me, the "other", being away, was most certainly wrong.
But there was a strange contradiction building inside me. One that began to challenge these assumptions and perspectives. Something urging me to look beyond the confines of the known and just glimpse the "other." As an 18-year-old high school graduate, I excitedly embarked on a journey that took me, gasp, out of state. I crossed the Wisconsin border (all of 25 miles into the southwest corner of the state), and set up my new home in the big city of Platteville (pop. 8,500 or so). There were stoplights, a Wal-Mart, gas stations and grocery stores. And I was terrified. A brief adjustment period later, I found that I really loved that town...if only it were...bigger.
Bigger? But what about the evil of the city? What about that scary "other"? Some slow stretching of my boundaries was apparently redefining my perspective.
Fast forward to now. As Derrick and I set the table for dinner and cook side by side, our conversation once again meanders to the possibilities of the future. How do you feel about Canada? he says. There's a lot going on in Sweden, he suggests. Madison and Boulder are still just about the perfect cities, I think aloud.
At this point in my life, the world no longer feels like it's so big. Not quite as scary. There's less and less that seems so "other" to me now. If I adapted from a town of a few hundred people to a college town to a small city, surely I can adapt to wherever we go. There's still that contradiction inside me, that urging to go and do and try and learn. My family is so valuable to me, but maybe the experience of dwelling and growing up with all of the cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents just manifests itself differently when you don't live down the street from them. And maybe that's not so scary, just different.
As the world continues to shrink and my perspective continues to grow, I am more and more excited to take a leap. To experience the "other." To allow myself to truly believe that the "other" can be good. Maybe that little urge that's always been in me has really been preparing me my whole life for what is yet to come. It caused me to tiptoe out of state, then jump into a small city, then....? Well, who knows. But I sure will be excited to be there.
All this talk has had me thinking and rethinking about not only my own immediate world, but really the whole world. It's a big place, but not as big as I once thought.
Growing up in a small town, I only new one perspective. Small towns were safe, secure, quiet. Kids could run and play all day, ride their bikes down the middle of the street, play in any backyard they wanted. It was a most amazing way to spend a childhood. But with that perspective came a certain perspective of the "other" existence. Cities. As a kid, and even on my way to college as an 18-year-old, I truly believed that if small towns were heaven-like, cities must be hell. Danger, predators, noise, fences, stop lights, traffic...all of it was bad and scary and wrong. Similarly, when growing up within a 15-minute drive of all of the cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, I assumed that's just how the world worked. Everyone got together with their whole giant crazy family for every holiday, every Sunday lunch. And thus, as my logic would tell me, the "other", being away, was most certainly wrong.
But there was a strange contradiction building inside me. One that began to challenge these assumptions and perspectives. Something urging me to look beyond the confines of the known and just glimpse the "other." As an 18-year-old high school graduate, I excitedly embarked on a journey that took me, gasp, out of state. I crossed the Wisconsin border (all of 25 miles into the southwest corner of the state), and set up my new home in the big city of Platteville (pop. 8,500 or so). There were stoplights, a Wal-Mart, gas stations and grocery stores. And I was terrified. A brief adjustment period later, I found that I really loved that town...if only it were...bigger.
Bigger? But what about the evil of the city? What about that scary "other"? Some slow stretching of my boundaries was apparently redefining my perspective.
Fast forward to now. As Derrick and I set the table for dinner and cook side by side, our conversation once again meanders to the possibilities of the future. How do you feel about Canada? he says. There's a lot going on in Sweden, he suggests. Madison and Boulder are still just about the perfect cities, I think aloud.
At this point in my life, the world no longer feels like it's so big. Not quite as scary. There's less and less that seems so "other" to me now. If I adapted from a town of a few hundred people to a college town to a small city, surely I can adapt to wherever we go. There's still that contradiction inside me, that urging to go and do and try and learn. My family is so valuable to me, but maybe the experience of dwelling and growing up with all of the cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents just manifests itself differently when you don't live down the street from them. And maybe that's not so scary, just different.
As the world continues to shrink and my perspective continues to grow, I am more and more excited to take a leap. To experience the "other." To allow myself to truly believe that the "other" can be good. Maybe that little urge that's always been in me has really been preparing me my whole life for what is yet to come. It caused me to tiptoe out of state, then jump into a small city, then....? Well, who knows. But I sure will be excited to be there.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Fear and the Wall
Realizing there are less than six weeks to go before Derrick and I jet off to our mysterymoon has pushed me back into frequent workout mode. You may have noticed the last few posts focusing on this more than other topics, and with good reason.
I have dearly missed running and working hard. I hit the treadmill this winter irregularly at best and started the spring off with a yellow fever vaccination that took over nearly four weeks of my life leaving me with no energy to do anything at all. And now, here we are. Just six short weeks from one of the biggest adventures of our lives, and I find myself needing to confess: I'm not ready.
As I ramp up the run mileage, and the additional workouts, and hopefully soon some swim miles, I am made fully aware daily of my own human limitations. I feel frustrated. I feel defeated. I feel afraid.
In the running world, there is an analogy that nearly all runners know and know well: the wall. In an endurance race, it is the point at which you feel like you can't go on, like you want to quit. The point at which you are frustrated, defeated, and yes, afraid. I have met the wall. But I wasn't really aware that the wall was more than just a point in a race. For me, it has become a point in my training. As I work to make up the deficit of all that was lost this winter and spring, which after counting the costs so far, was A LOT, I have come to a point in my ramp up where I have been left to face a mighty wall. Right now, training is not fun. It is not enjoyable in any way. It hurts. I'm frustrated. And I want to quit.
The mighty wall is decorated with nothing except ribbons of my own fear. They cover nearly the entire surface of the wall, with just enough room for pain, frustration, and defeat to show through. But if I am honest, it's the fear that I see.
Now, this might sound like crazy talk to some, and I accept that for what it is, but I have dreams. Dreams of becoming a serious athlete. Maybe I'll never be a Chrissy Wellington (my personal IronMan superwoman inspiration), but I believe that I could be a competitive age grouper, that maybe I could even win some races. But I also know that standing between the current me and the competitive athlete me is not just the wall I stare at today, but many, MANY walls, each laced with fears, anxieties, pain, frustration, and defeat.
Why in the world would I want to put myself through this again and again? It sounds downright torturous. And maybe, to some extent, it will be. But I am learning why I might want to face these walls, even this one now. Courage. The only way to knock down the wall of fear in front of me is to face it head on with courage. How does one acquire more courage? By taking down more walls of fear. And where do walls of fear come from? Doing the hard things that cause the walls to show up in the first place.
Walls remind us of our humanity. Our own weaknesses and limitations. Those things exist. People facing walls have two choices - stop when they arrive at the wall, acknowledge their weaknesses and limitations and accept them as fact OR breathe courage deep into their lungs, refuse to accept the weaknesses and limitations as truth, and hulk-smash the wall into a pile of rubble, stronger and more courageous than before.
Today, I choose the hulk-smash. Today I choose to breathe deep the courage required to keep going. I will not believe that what I have done today is all I can do. There is so much more in store for me, and it's waiting just on the other side of this wall.
I have dearly missed running and working hard. I hit the treadmill this winter irregularly at best and started the spring off with a yellow fever vaccination that took over nearly four weeks of my life leaving me with no energy to do anything at all. And now, here we are. Just six short weeks from one of the biggest adventures of our lives, and I find myself needing to confess: I'm not ready.
As I ramp up the run mileage, and the additional workouts, and hopefully soon some swim miles, I am made fully aware daily of my own human limitations. I feel frustrated. I feel defeated. I feel afraid.
In the running world, there is an analogy that nearly all runners know and know well: the wall. In an endurance race, it is the point at which you feel like you can't go on, like you want to quit. The point at which you are frustrated, defeated, and yes, afraid. I have met the wall. But I wasn't really aware that the wall was more than just a point in a race. For me, it has become a point in my training. As I work to make up the deficit of all that was lost this winter and spring, which after counting the costs so far, was A LOT, I have come to a point in my ramp up where I have been left to face a mighty wall. Right now, training is not fun. It is not enjoyable in any way. It hurts. I'm frustrated. And I want to quit.
The mighty wall is decorated with nothing except ribbons of my own fear. They cover nearly the entire surface of the wall, with just enough room for pain, frustration, and defeat to show through. But if I am honest, it's the fear that I see.
Now, this might sound like crazy talk to some, and I accept that for what it is, but I have dreams. Dreams of becoming a serious athlete. Maybe I'll never be a Chrissy Wellington (my personal IronMan superwoman inspiration), but I believe that I could be a competitive age grouper, that maybe I could even win some races. But I also know that standing between the current me and the competitive athlete me is not just the wall I stare at today, but many, MANY walls, each laced with fears, anxieties, pain, frustration, and defeat.
Why in the world would I want to put myself through this again and again? It sounds downright torturous. And maybe, to some extent, it will be. But I am learning why I might want to face these walls, even this one now. Courage. The only way to knock down the wall of fear in front of me is to face it head on with courage. How does one acquire more courage? By taking down more walls of fear. And where do walls of fear come from? Doing the hard things that cause the walls to show up in the first place.
Walls remind us of our humanity. Our own weaknesses and limitations. Those things exist. People facing walls have two choices - stop when they arrive at the wall, acknowledge their weaknesses and limitations and accept them as fact OR breathe courage deep into their lungs, refuse to accept the weaknesses and limitations as truth, and hulk-smash the wall into a pile of rubble, stronger and more courageous than before.
Today, I choose the hulk-smash. Today I choose to breathe deep the courage required to keep going. I will not believe that what I have done today is all I can do. There is so much more in store for me, and it's waiting just on the other side of this wall.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
The why behind being strong
After posting my last post, and spending another two weeks continuing to struggle with consistency and mental toughness in workouts, I find myself with the serious question of why I want to work so hard and be so strong...because frankly, it would be far easier and far less frustrating to opt to sit on the couch every night of the week than convincing my body to try hard things with the soreness and sweating that accompany it. What exactly is my motivation? Especially when it comes to racing and endurance sports. Some days I seem to come up against a pity party so strong and so illogical, that it almost makes me want to give up. After all, I have lots of friends who never work out, and they have so much free time to do, well, anything else. Whine, complain, boo hoo...enough. Let's get the facts straight right now in order to refocus energy in a useful direction.
1. I really actually, truly do want to be healthy in every way.
We only get one body and one life. And although some may be able to get by just fine (or perhaps convince themselves they're fine) without a day of working out in their lives, I can't. I want to live to a ripe old age and not end up in a state of decrepitude at any point on my way there. I want to be mentally sharp and physically able all the days of my life. If I really want that, I have to work hard for it.
2. I need the space and time.
If given the opportunity, I think I would work myself to death. I would sit at my computer for hours, endlessly plugging away at all there may be to do. And when I run out of things to do, I make more things to do. Physically working hard, as counter intuitive as it may sound, gives me space in my life to do something else, something that is fulfilling and good and good for me. Workouts give me time to wrestle, think, pray, fight, laugh... I need these things in my life to keep me sane and happy. Some days workouts are hard. Some days they don't feel like an increase of time or space, but more like a constriction of both. But I have never once come to the end of a workout and looked back at it with regret. Not once.
3.It's mine. It's God's.
Sometimes I think that I need something that is just for me. Just mine. I used to think that running was that thing. But then I discovered that run time and prayer time together. And suddenly, this workout thing wasn't mine at all. It was clearly God's. It was God's gift to me, a multipurpose time designed for me and Him to spend some time together and for me to get stronger, get this, for His glory. Though it can be hard to remember in the tougher, more frustrating workouts, every time I spend time working out and praying, dwelling on scripture, or even just clearing some of the frustration from the day, I am honoring the gifts God has given me, the gifts of my body, my strength, my joy. This is, perhaps the most motivating thing I need to remember. I work hard for me AND God.
Sometimes I just need a good solid press of a reset button. Today's workout reminded me that I needed to seek out the why of choosing to be strong and work hard. No more pity parties, just good hard work from here on out.
1. I really actually, truly do want to be healthy in every way.
We only get one body and one life. And although some may be able to get by just fine (or perhaps convince themselves they're fine) without a day of working out in their lives, I can't. I want to live to a ripe old age and not end up in a state of decrepitude at any point on my way there. I want to be mentally sharp and physically able all the days of my life. If I really want that, I have to work hard for it.
2. I need the space and time.
If given the opportunity, I think I would work myself to death. I would sit at my computer for hours, endlessly plugging away at all there may be to do. And when I run out of things to do, I make more things to do. Physically working hard, as counter intuitive as it may sound, gives me space in my life to do something else, something that is fulfilling and good and good for me. Workouts give me time to wrestle, think, pray, fight, laugh... I need these things in my life to keep me sane and happy. Some days workouts are hard. Some days they don't feel like an increase of time or space, but more like a constriction of both. But I have never once come to the end of a workout and looked back at it with regret. Not once.
3.
Sometimes I think that I need something that is just for me. Just mine. I used to think that running was that thing. But then I discovered that run time and prayer time together. And suddenly, this workout thing wasn't mine at all. It was clearly God's. It was God's gift to me, a multipurpose time designed for me and Him to spend some time together and for me to get stronger, get this, for His glory. Though it can be hard to remember in the tougher, more frustrating workouts, every time I spend time working out and praying, dwelling on scripture, or even just clearing some of the frustration from the day, I am honoring the gifts God has given me, the gifts of my body, my strength, my joy. This is, perhaps the most motivating thing I need to remember. I work hard for me AND God.
Sometimes I just need a good solid press of a reset button. Today's workout reminded me that I needed to seek out the why of choosing to be strong and work hard. No more pity parties, just good hard work from here on out.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
The body lies.
After a slow few days following a yellow fever vaccination that resulted in a few days of a sore arm, a low grade fever, and some flu-like symptoms, I thought I'd try to take a little run. It had been a week since my last outing, and I was itching for a good stride. Due to some nasty winds and some impending rain, I opted for a nice cozy treadmill rather than being blown into traffic at the top of some hill.
A half mile in, I knew it was going to be a tough run, so I chose some shorter burst speed drills rather than going for distance, which at least gave my lungs some reprieve between sets. But the experience got me to thinking about how I ever got to be any sort of athlete at all. Three years ago, I couldn't run two minutes at a time. I couldn't really swim more than a length of the pool. I didn't own a bike or a good pair of running shoes. Sure I've been a long-time on-again, off-again yogi, but I didn't focus nearly any time on conditioning my body, just when it happenstancically fit into my work schedule.
I think there are lies that we tell ourselves when we aren't good to our bodies. Things that somehow justify our behaviors and leave us in our places. Thinking of these lies bring me back not only to a few years ago, but to my first days as a college recruiter, where road time, sitting in high schools, and running through the McDonald's drive-thru were my normal activities. Scary to think how fast my work clothes didn't fit and I started feeling pretty terrible. A few months really. But anyway, back to the lies.
Lie #1: Really, I'm fine.
Really? That's where we want to start? Yeah, keep telling yourself you're fine as you struggle mightily to get up the stairs. As your joints complain and show signs of wear. Keep up the lie that you're fine and unaffected as you gain weight and lose muscle and flexibility and range of motion.
How about instead, you take a good honest status check of what your body is really saying. That McDonald's food isn't satisfying, neither is the third helping of anything. Your knees might be wearing out. You know that once they're gone, they're gone right? Your lungs are crying out for assistance. You, my friend, are not fine. This is a lie developed by the side of you that is more content lying on the couch than going to the effort of stretching or moving. The side of you who would just as soon find an elevator. The side of you that believes that your knees or hips or back won't ever really wear out completely. But here's the thing - our bodies only know how to deteriorate when left to their own devices. (More on this in a bit.) You're not fine. Find what isn't fine in you. Recognize it and be ready to work to make it right.
Lie #2: I don't have time.
Funny thing about time, it's always somehow full. We make choices everyday about how we will spend our time. And there is a side of you, the same side that believes the lie that you're fine, that believes that there is nothing you can do to find time to work for the benefit of your body. Sure, that hour long phone conversation was important. And on, my favorite movie is on tv tonight! And isn't it just nice to come home from work and just be home for the night? Ooh, Facebook drama...cat videos...new baby photos! There is always something lurking in the shadows that wants your time.
But you do have a choice. You have choices everyday to make your body better or to make it worse. I, for instance, have nearly completely given up watching tv. Why? Because it takes up time, it's generally not good for me in any way, and it's not even all that gratifying to watch! But yet, we watch. For hours. Sometimes I give up sleeping in an extra half hour. Sometimes I sacrifice a little quality snuggle on the couch. Something always has to give when you make a new choice about how to spend your time. But time is always there for you to decide what to do with. Trust me, you do have the time.
Lie #3: My body can't do that.
Do you think that I got to where I am today (or will get to where I will be in the future) by believing the lie that my body just can't or won't do something? There is a force far more powerful than your body. It's your heart (or for extremely mental athletes, your brain...I'll talk about both here). Your body will always believe only in its limitations. As I said before, our bodies were born knowing only how to decay. They were, indeed born to die. But our hearts and brains are constantly learning, growing, shifting, changing, developing... And their strength is incredible!
And let's have an honest moment about working out hard. It hurts! I mean really! My body will always tell me no. It believes it can't. It tries to convince me it won't. But then my heart kicks in, and it gives my body its marching orders, because, well, I really want to be well, to be strong. I do. My body doesn't. So I push it. I force the issue. I quiet the lie that tells me I can't with a might and ferocious, "I CAN." And then I do my very best. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes, like tonight, I struggle. But after a few years of pushing and forcing and encouraging and believing in my heart that my body is wrong, it turns out, it is.
Look, I don't really know who this pep talk was meant for. Maybe just for me. I don't want to settle for believing I'm fine. I want to take the time to work hard and sweat and get stronger, and I know that I can expect my brain and heart to push my body well beyond the limits it believes it has.
I am 30. I have every intention of not allowing my body to decay and deteriorate. I will fight death with life, with deep breaths, with strong muscles, with fast runs, long swims, impossibly hilly bikes. I will get stronger because I can. Won't you join me? Save that deteriorating body with an invigorated soul, with new goals and with no lies about what is possible standing in your way.
A half mile in, I knew it was going to be a tough run, so I chose some shorter burst speed drills rather than going for distance, which at least gave my lungs some reprieve between sets. But the experience got me to thinking about how I ever got to be any sort of athlete at all. Three years ago, I couldn't run two minutes at a time. I couldn't really swim more than a length of the pool. I didn't own a bike or a good pair of running shoes. Sure I've been a long-time on-again, off-again yogi, but I didn't focus nearly any time on conditioning my body, just when it happenstancically fit into my work schedule.
I think there are lies that we tell ourselves when we aren't good to our bodies. Things that somehow justify our behaviors and leave us in our places. Thinking of these lies bring me back not only to a few years ago, but to my first days as a college recruiter, where road time, sitting in high schools, and running through the McDonald's drive-thru were my normal activities. Scary to think how fast my work clothes didn't fit and I started feeling pretty terrible. A few months really. But anyway, back to the lies.
Lie #1: Really, I'm fine.
Really? That's where we want to start? Yeah, keep telling yourself you're fine as you struggle mightily to get up the stairs. As your joints complain and show signs of wear. Keep up the lie that you're fine and unaffected as you gain weight and lose muscle and flexibility and range of motion.
How about instead, you take a good honest status check of what your body is really saying. That McDonald's food isn't satisfying, neither is the third helping of anything. Your knees might be wearing out. You know that once they're gone, they're gone right? Your lungs are crying out for assistance. You, my friend, are not fine. This is a lie developed by the side of you that is more content lying on the couch than going to the effort of stretching or moving. The side of you who would just as soon find an elevator. The side of you that believes that your knees or hips or back won't ever really wear out completely. But here's the thing - our bodies only know how to deteriorate when left to their own devices. (More on this in a bit.) You're not fine. Find what isn't fine in you. Recognize it and be ready to work to make it right.
Lie #2: I don't have time.
Funny thing about time, it's always somehow full. We make choices everyday about how we will spend our time. And there is a side of you, the same side that believes the lie that you're fine, that believes that there is nothing you can do to find time to work for the benefit of your body. Sure, that hour long phone conversation was important. And on, my favorite movie is on tv tonight! And isn't it just nice to come home from work and just be home for the night? Ooh, Facebook drama...cat videos...new baby photos! There is always something lurking in the shadows that wants your time.
But you do have a choice. You have choices everyday to make your body better or to make it worse. I, for instance, have nearly completely given up watching tv. Why? Because it takes up time, it's generally not good for me in any way, and it's not even all that gratifying to watch! But yet, we watch. For hours. Sometimes I give up sleeping in an extra half hour. Sometimes I sacrifice a little quality snuggle on the couch. Something always has to give when you make a new choice about how to spend your time. But time is always there for you to decide what to do with. Trust me, you do have the time.
Lie #3: My body can't do that.
Do you think that I got to where I am today (or will get to where I will be in the future) by believing the lie that my body just can't or won't do something? There is a force far more powerful than your body. It's your heart (or for extremely mental athletes, your brain...I'll talk about both here). Your body will always believe only in its limitations. As I said before, our bodies were born knowing only how to decay. They were, indeed born to die. But our hearts and brains are constantly learning, growing, shifting, changing, developing... And their strength is incredible!
And let's have an honest moment about working out hard. It hurts! I mean really! My body will always tell me no. It believes it can't. It tries to convince me it won't. But then my heart kicks in, and it gives my body its marching orders, because, well, I really want to be well, to be strong. I do. My body doesn't. So I push it. I force the issue. I quiet the lie that tells me I can't with a might and ferocious, "I CAN." And then I do my very best. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes, like tonight, I struggle. But after a few years of pushing and forcing and encouraging and believing in my heart that my body is wrong, it turns out, it is.
Look, I don't really know who this pep talk was meant for. Maybe just for me. I don't want to settle for believing I'm fine. I want to take the time to work hard and sweat and get stronger, and I know that I can expect my brain and heart to push my body well beyond the limits it believes it has.
I am 30. I have every intention of not allowing my body to decay and deteriorate. I will fight death with life, with deep breaths, with strong muscles, with fast runs, long swims, impossibly hilly bikes. I will get stronger because I can. Won't you join me? Save that deteriorating body with an invigorated soul, with new goals and with no lies about what is possible standing in your way.
Authenticity?
In a recent lecture that I sat in on on the topic of leadership, the idea of authenticity, or as it was defined, being true to one's self, was brought up in almost every type of leadership. But I found myself getting hung up on the word, or perhaps the definition.
What if deep down, in my truest core, I'm an emotional wreck. I mean just a real disaster? What if my heart yearned to shed tears at nearly every situation or experience? As a leader, is that the authentic self I should rely on? I think we can all agree that basket cases don't make great leaders. And what if my truest self was angry at the world? That doesn't seem like a healthy place to lean on. What if my true self wanted to always make others happy to the point that I couldn't tell them the truth if it was painful?
So what are we really talking about here? What is authenticity all about? Are we really just talking about the positive elements of our true selves? Our true good selves? Why don't we just say that then? Are we really talking about something beyond ourselves? Something of greater magnitude? If so, why do we consider it being true to self rather than being true to whatever it is?
I think some serious examination is in order to try to discover what this authenticity world is all about. Because, to be honest, sometimes I don't really like what I see when I look deep within myself. I don't like how I react to things sometimes or even how I choose to lead sometimes. If I don't like all the things that make up myself, then given the definition, I can't say I really want to be authentic all the time. And where do words like consistency, judgement, rationality, emotional stability, empathy...all those other words that we associate with good leaders land in the realm of authenticity? How are they connected?
Some days, I open a blank blog post and start typing in hopes that answers to my questions come flowing through the keys, as if by some godly channel that produces wisdom beyond my own. Some days, it shows up. Today, it's just questions, so I'll need to seek my answers elsewhere.
What if deep down, in my truest core, I'm an emotional wreck. I mean just a real disaster? What if my heart yearned to shed tears at nearly every situation or experience? As a leader, is that the authentic self I should rely on? I think we can all agree that basket cases don't make great leaders. And what if my truest self was angry at the world? That doesn't seem like a healthy place to lean on. What if my true self wanted to always make others happy to the point that I couldn't tell them the truth if it was painful?
So what are we really talking about here? What is authenticity all about? Are we really just talking about the positive elements of our true selves? Our true good selves? Why don't we just say that then? Are we really talking about something beyond ourselves? Something of greater magnitude? If so, why do we consider it being true to self rather than being true to whatever it is?
I think some serious examination is in order to try to discover what this authenticity world is all about. Because, to be honest, sometimes I don't really like what I see when I look deep within myself. I don't like how I react to things sometimes or even how I choose to lead sometimes. If I don't like all the things that make up myself, then given the definition, I can't say I really want to be authentic all the time. And where do words like consistency, judgement, rationality, emotional stability, empathy...all those other words that we associate with good leaders land in the realm of authenticity? How are they connected?
Some days, I open a blank blog post and start typing in hopes that answers to my questions come flowing through the keys, as if by some godly channel that produces wisdom beyond my own. Some days, it shows up. Today, it's just questions, so I'll need to seek my answers elsewhere.
Friday, April 04, 2014
Trust & Fear
I must start this post with a confession. I am not the fearless wonder woman I project myself to be. Now, don't get me wrong. I want to be a fearless wonder woman. I strive to be a fearless wonder woman. But I've got fears. Oh, boy, do I have fears.
I'm afraid of bugs, spiders mostly. I'm afraid of forgetting important things. I have fears of doing things wrong. Of being incapable of doing what I want. Germs, especially of the raw meat variety. Winter driving. Running in the dark. Being careless with money. Saying stupid or embarrassing things. Grates in sidewalks. Public restroom surfaces. Trying new experiences for the first time.
I spend a lot of time masking these fears, pretending to be a fearless wonder woman. But last night, some of the fears started leak out of me. And it quickly snowballed. It was mostly mysterymoon related. For the past three months, I have been beyond exciting to have Derrick plan a secret trip for us, leaving me totally in the dark about all of it. I desperately wanted to be able to let go of control and allow him to plan it all. I wanted a grand adventure.
Or so I thought.
But then, I started to get scared. What if he didn't think of everything? What if we get stuck wherever we're going and can't get home? What if we don't have the right equipment. What if I'm not strong enough? What if, what if, what if... And this incredible sense of guilt began to wash over me because, as I started spewing me fears in Derrick's general direction, it sounded a lot like I didn't trust him to plan this trip.
But that's just not true. I trust the man with me life. I trust his skills and abilities and research. I trust his instruction and his instinct. It cannot be then that I do not somehow trust him with some vacation plans.
But, the more I think about this, the more I begin to think that perhaps fear and trust are not so related. I mean, I trust my dad when we're climbing big mountains, but I still fear crossing rushing streams on rotting logs or slippery stretches of path near the summit. I trust that my co-workers are working hard, but I still fear that collaborative programs might fail. I trust God's plan in the world, but I fear for the lives of future generations.
It seems like trust and fear should be more related. If I really trust, do I have reason to be afraid? The logical answer here is no, of course. And yet... I think perhaps where my fears live is a different habitat all together than where my trust lives. I think trust lives deep in the heart and forms a line that somehow supersedes reality. No matter the circumstances, I can still choose to trust. But my fears create a scatter plot of all of the many external forces, the unknowables, the slim chances, the what if's that live around reality. Fears live in all of the other possible realities that exist all around us. Trust is on a different plane all together. To trust, I make a decision to trust, to follow that line above basic reality. To not fear, I have to shut out a whole lot of dots on a scatter plot. A whole lot.
I think the only effective way to become a fearless wonder woman is two fold. I need to keep on trusting. Trust can and will help me to continue to rise above fears. And I need to go and do many scary things. Kill spiders, rely on my memory, test my capabilities, cook, drive in the snow, run with a head lamp, stick to a budget, speak up, walk over the grates on the sidewalks, use public restrooms, and try everything at least once. I fully trust my love to send us on a once-in-a-lifetime mysterymoon trip, and I'm scared out of my mind. But without hesitation, I will go. And just maybe come back a little bit more of a fearless wonder woman.
I'm afraid of bugs, spiders mostly. I'm afraid of forgetting important things. I have fears of doing things wrong. Of being incapable of doing what I want. Germs, especially of the raw meat variety. Winter driving. Running in the dark. Being careless with money. Saying stupid or embarrassing things. Grates in sidewalks. Public restroom surfaces. Trying new experiences for the first time.
I spend a lot of time masking these fears, pretending to be a fearless wonder woman. But last night, some of the fears started leak out of me. And it quickly snowballed. It was mostly mysterymoon related. For the past three months, I have been beyond exciting to have Derrick plan a secret trip for us, leaving me totally in the dark about all of it. I desperately wanted to be able to let go of control and allow him to plan it all. I wanted a grand adventure.
Or so I thought.
But then, I started to get scared. What if he didn't think of everything? What if we get stuck wherever we're going and can't get home? What if we don't have the right equipment. What if I'm not strong enough? What if, what if, what if... And this incredible sense of guilt began to wash over me because, as I started spewing me fears in Derrick's general direction, it sounded a lot like I didn't trust him to plan this trip.
But that's just not true. I trust the man with me life. I trust his skills and abilities and research. I trust his instruction and his instinct. It cannot be then that I do not somehow trust him with some vacation plans.
But, the more I think about this, the more I begin to think that perhaps fear and trust are not so related. I mean, I trust my dad when we're climbing big mountains, but I still fear crossing rushing streams on rotting logs or slippery stretches of path near the summit. I trust that my co-workers are working hard, but I still fear that collaborative programs might fail. I trust God's plan in the world, but I fear for the lives of future generations.
It seems like trust and fear should be more related. If I really trust, do I have reason to be afraid? The logical answer here is no, of course. And yet... I think perhaps where my fears live is a different habitat all together than where my trust lives. I think trust lives deep in the heart and forms a line that somehow supersedes reality. No matter the circumstances, I can still choose to trust. But my fears create a scatter plot of all of the many external forces, the unknowables, the slim chances, the what if's that live around reality. Fears live in all of the other possible realities that exist all around us. Trust is on a different plane all together. To trust, I make a decision to trust, to follow that line above basic reality. To not fear, I have to shut out a whole lot of dots on a scatter plot. A whole lot.
I think the only effective way to become a fearless wonder woman is two fold. I need to keep on trusting. Trust can and will help me to continue to rise above fears. And I need to go and do many scary things. Kill spiders, rely on my memory, test my capabilities, cook, drive in the snow, run with a head lamp, stick to a budget, speak up, walk over the grates on the sidewalks, use public restrooms, and try everything at least once. I fully trust my love to send us on a once-in-a-lifetime mysterymoon trip, and I'm scared out of my mind. But without hesitation, I will go. And just maybe come back a little bit more of a fearless wonder woman.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Just call me Jonah.
I was just about to finish up the self-appointed task of reading and annotating the entire new textbook anthology we're using for one of the classes that I work with on campus, and pretty pleased to be nearly complete, when I flipped the page and came across the biblical story of Jonah. (The whole anthology is different perspectives on what it means to lead a life that matters.)
I didn't even have to read the story to hear the message loud and clear.
Now, pretty much everyone knows the story of Jonah. It's one of the first feltboard stories you see as a little kid in Sunday school class. Jonah gets a pretty clear directive from God. Go. To. Nineveh. Jonah, being sort of a brat, is like, Um....No. He gets in a boat that's headed the exact opposite way of Nineveh, climbs down below, and takes a smug and satisfied little nap. The guys on board experience a huge storm and assume that one of them had clearly done something wrong, so they wake Jonah up to see if it happens to be him. And you know Jonah is already like, Craaaaaapppppp. It's totally me. So he tells them to toss him overboard, and they do, and the storm disappears. Eerie. Even more eerie is the fact that a big ol' fish is waiting for Jonah in the water, swallows him up, and spits him out a few days later on dry land. (It's here I always have the image of that scene from Pinocchio where they build a fire in the whale's belly to escape...and that, by the way, is the wrong story...) God once again reminds Jonah of his mission. He goes, probably with a series of big overblown sighs and frustrated grunts, does his job in Nineveh, and God saves the city. Jonah gets mad about that, but that's another post for another day.
So, like I was saying, I didn't even have to read the story to know the message. For a while, God has been calling me to a certain something, a Nineveh of my own. I don't really want the job. It's not a fun job. It comes with a fair amount of risk. It is going to be hard to do. I will probably be there for a while, or forever. And I've been trying to ignore this job for a while. But I really have known for a while. And just seeing the title of the book of Jonah on the page this week was enough to tip the scale.
I'm not dumb. I can take a hint and learn a lesson. And frankly, one guy being tossed overboard into a raging storm and then a whale's belly is quite enough. I don't need to throw myself overboard with him. I don't even need to be in the boat. Tonight I told Derrick for the first time that I was told to go to Nineveh, so to speak. And he just chuckled and told me that my confession made a lot of sense. And then he said, Welcome to my life, a series of frustrated but grateful groans to God about being in the places I am told to be. All. The. Time. At least we get to gratefully groan together from now on?
I'm not really sure why God does this, sends us to places we don't want to go, on missions we don't want to do. I wish I had some really insightful thing to write right here. I guess I just choose to see the silver lining when I can. Otherwise, I'd probably just end up perpetually mad at God. There was a reason Jonah was to go to Nineveh. There must be reasons for me to face my own Ninevites. Some growth or learning or development or maturity. Even if I stomp my feet and scrunch my face the whole time. God knows better than I why he called me to this task. He knows why it needs to be me and them and how it will all turn out in the end. It might not be the way I anticipate. I might even be mad at the result in the end, but that doesn't change the fact that God is God, and I am who he wants to use. I don't get it. I'm a tad frustrated by it, but I know in the end that there will be gratitude and growth in there somewhere, somehow.
At least the fleeting thought of getting in the opposite-way boat is out of my head. Jonah already learned that lesson for me. Wish me luck in Nineveh, folks. I'm going to be there a while.
I didn't even have to read the story to hear the message loud and clear.
Now, pretty much everyone knows the story of Jonah. It's one of the first feltboard stories you see as a little kid in Sunday school class. Jonah gets a pretty clear directive from God. Go. To. Nineveh. Jonah, being sort of a brat, is like, Um....No. He gets in a boat that's headed the exact opposite way of Nineveh, climbs down below, and takes a smug and satisfied little nap. The guys on board experience a huge storm and assume that one of them had clearly done something wrong, so they wake Jonah up to see if it happens to be him. And you know Jonah is already like, Craaaaaapppppp. It's totally me. So he tells them to toss him overboard, and they do, and the storm disappears. Eerie. Even more eerie is the fact that a big ol' fish is waiting for Jonah in the water, swallows him up, and spits him out a few days later on dry land. (It's here I always have the image of that scene from Pinocchio where they build a fire in the whale's belly to escape...and that, by the way, is the wrong story...) God once again reminds Jonah of his mission. He goes, probably with a series of big overblown sighs and frustrated grunts, does his job in Nineveh, and God saves the city. Jonah gets mad about that, but that's another post for another day.
So, like I was saying, I didn't even have to read the story to know the message. For a while, God has been calling me to a certain something, a Nineveh of my own. I don't really want the job. It's not a fun job. It comes with a fair amount of risk. It is going to be hard to do. I will probably be there for a while, or forever. And I've been trying to ignore this job for a while. But I really have known for a while. And just seeing the title of the book of Jonah on the page this week was enough to tip the scale.
I'm not dumb. I can take a hint and learn a lesson. And frankly, one guy being tossed overboard into a raging storm and then a whale's belly is quite enough. I don't need to throw myself overboard with him. I don't even need to be in the boat. Tonight I told Derrick for the first time that I was told to go to Nineveh, so to speak. And he just chuckled and told me that my confession made a lot of sense. And then he said, Welcome to my life, a series of frustrated but grateful groans to God about being in the places I am told to be. All. The. Time. At least we get to gratefully groan together from now on?
I'm not really sure why God does this, sends us to places we don't want to go, on missions we don't want to do. I wish I had some really insightful thing to write right here. I guess I just choose to see the silver lining when I can. Otherwise, I'd probably just end up perpetually mad at God. There was a reason Jonah was to go to Nineveh. There must be reasons for me to face my own Ninevites. Some growth or learning or development or maturity. Even if I stomp my feet and scrunch my face the whole time. God knows better than I why he called me to this task. He knows why it needs to be me and them and how it will all turn out in the end. It might not be the way I anticipate. I might even be mad at the result in the end, but that doesn't change the fact that God is God, and I am who he wants to use. I don't get it. I'm a tad frustrated by it, but I know in the end that there will be gratitude and growth in there somewhere, somehow.
At least the fleeting thought of getting in the opposite-way boat is out of my head. Jonah already learned that lesson for me. Wish me luck in Nineveh, folks. I'm going to be there a while.
Monday, March 24, 2014
Pre-Digital Footprint
In one of my roles at work, I serve as a mentor to a group of students that are challenged to think about issues of character. This semester's focus is on technology and character, with a close eye on social media. This week, students were asked two questions:
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I have this box in my house. It's filled with hundreds of old black and white photos from my grandparents, some as far back as their newlywed days. I've flipped through the photos more times than I can count. These discussion questions of digital footprint have my thoughts drifting back to when they were young. What footprint did they leave behind?
If I went digging, and I mean really intensely digging, I bet I could find published, public records of these two grandparents. Their birth, marriage, death records. Major purchases. Their number listed in the phone book. Their address in the church directory. Perhaps my papa's business got some local press in the paper. They were not invisible. Their existence left a footprint in the world.
And that box of photos is filled with the happiest of memories. Their first house together. Dinner parties. A new baby. Vacations. All with perfect hair and clean rooms and pretty dresses and happy people. The documented portions of their lives were by no means accurate representation of the lives they lived. They had to have had bad hair days and naughty kids and years where the money didn't allow them to take trips.
So what's the difference? Sure, the medium is different. I couldn't really Google them, per se, like you could Google me. My photos, looking just as put together and accomplished and well traveled as theirs did, aren't in a box. They're in a cloud. My records aren't buried on microfiche. They're floating about it bits and bites online.
The most significant difference as far as I can tell is how the information is transmitted. How and how far. The photos in the box only get seen by the people I show them to. My photos get seen by anyone with adequate Googling ability. Their address was in the church directory. Mine can be found on whitepages.com. When one of them needed to call their second cousin's husband Morty, who picked up Grandma's scarf at a family reunion, they simply asked their sister, who called her cousin, who looked in a notebook, and found Morty's number. If my second cousin Amber picks up my scarf at a reunion, I simply search her name and town to come up with her number. If an employer wanted to know what Grandma was really like before giving her the job at the meat processing plant where she once worked, he called a reference, and that's all he knew. Unless she was in the paper that week for reckless driving. Now, employers, like everyone else, Googles us, finds us on Facebook, looks for our tweets.
Papa could have published an opinion piece in the paper every week if he wanted to. He could have showed their family photos to everyone who would have stopped to see them. He could have chosen an unlisted phone number or opt out of the church directory. They controlled the footprint that they left. And so do we. But for us, the options are far greater. The reach, much farther. The access, much easier. But we still control it.
I'm not opting out of Facebook anytime soon. My blog and other public displays of my existence on this earth will not be shut down either. These records I'm leaving behind aren't really bad or scary or dangerous. They're just new forms of old footprints. And just as I relish those happy black and white photos of my grandparents, I hope that the footprint I leave behind for my grandchildren brings them joy too. I don't want to be invisible in the world. I leave my footprint for the next generations. And in our world, that footprint just happens to be digital. Who knows what it will be for them.
- What is your digital footprint? In other words, where have you left significant digital traces online?
- What picture would this paint of you? Do you feel this would be an accurate representation of your "self"?
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I have this box in my house. It's filled with hundreds of old black and white photos from my grandparents, some as far back as their newlywed days. I've flipped through the photos more times than I can count. These discussion questions of digital footprint have my thoughts drifting back to when they were young. What footprint did they leave behind?
If I went digging, and I mean really intensely digging, I bet I could find published, public records of these two grandparents. Their birth, marriage, death records. Major purchases. Their number listed in the phone book. Their address in the church directory. Perhaps my papa's business got some local press in the paper. They were not invisible. Their existence left a footprint in the world.
And that box of photos is filled with the happiest of memories. Their first house together. Dinner parties. A new baby. Vacations. All with perfect hair and clean rooms and pretty dresses and happy people. The documented portions of their lives were by no means accurate representation of the lives they lived. They had to have had bad hair days and naughty kids and years where the money didn't allow them to take trips.
So what's the difference? Sure, the medium is different. I couldn't really Google them, per se, like you could Google me. My photos, looking just as put together and accomplished and well traveled as theirs did, aren't in a box. They're in a cloud. My records aren't buried on microfiche. They're floating about it bits and bites online.
The most significant difference as far as I can tell is how the information is transmitted. How and how far. The photos in the box only get seen by the people I show them to. My photos get seen by anyone with adequate Googling ability. Their address was in the church directory. Mine can be found on whitepages.com. When one of them needed to call their second cousin's husband Morty, who picked up Grandma's scarf at a family reunion, they simply asked their sister, who called her cousin, who looked in a notebook, and found Morty's number. If my second cousin Amber picks up my scarf at a reunion, I simply search her name and town to come up with her number. If an employer wanted to know what Grandma was really like before giving her the job at the meat processing plant where she once worked, he called a reference, and that's all he knew. Unless she was in the paper that week for reckless driving. Now, employers, like everyone else, Googles us, finds us on Facebook, looks for our tweets.
Papa could have published an opinion piece in the paper every week if he wanted to. He could have showed their family photos to everyone who would have stopped to see them. He could have chosen an unlisted phone number or opt out of the church directory. They controlled the footprint that they left. And so do we. But for us, the options are far greater. The reach, much farther. The access, much easier. But we still control it.
I'm not opting out of Facebook anytime soon. My blog and other public displays of my existence on this earth will not be shut down either. These records I'm leaving behind aren't really bad or scary or dangerous. They're just new forms of old footprints. And just as I relish those happy black and white photos of my grandparents, I hope that the footprint I leave behind for my grandchildren brings them joy too. I don't want to be invisible in the world. I leave my footprint for the next generations. And in our world, that footprint just happens to be digital. Who knows what it will be for them.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
On the Freedom of Facebook
I will preface this post by saying that I fully realize that by posting my opinions here, on a public blog, I am acting with a fair level of hypocrisy. This is not a holier-than-thou message, but it is a judgement of sorts, a judgement of appropriate versus inappropriate behavior online because it seems to me that we have lost the ability to tell the difference.
I find myself wondering lately what goes through people's minds when they post things to Facebook. What goes through my mind? As a rarer than most poster, I feel like what I post is about as random as my life in general. A quick perusal of this year's posts so far, my posts have included a few photos of random happenings in life (coffee, an event or two, engagement photo) and some random updates about workouts, weather, work, a few birthday messages to friends. And sometimes I wonder if even that has been too much. It's not overly exciting. They don't mean much. To me, this is sort of the equivalent of making small talk with someone you haven't seen in a while because for the most part, it is indeed small talk with people I nearly never see.
Recently, I have been witnessing more and more Facebook freakouts. Many of the posts I read are not small talk with acquaintances but rather deeply personal and directed updates about breakups or family members, not so subtle passive aggressive messages, and even intensely personal medical procedures/updates. There are hurtful, uncomfortable, painful things being published out there for all to see, and to what end?
Now, we need to pause here again to note that I realize that this blog is not so different from a Facebook status update. And if you dig through its pages, you will find deep hurts revealed amidst various reflections and personal details of my life. So I get it. It feels good to get things out of your brain, off your chest, and into the universe.
But there is a level of responsibility that comes with public domains like Facebook, like this blog, that is being forgotten and perhaps eliminated completely. And the deterioration of this responsibility is being considered, I think, something it is absolutely not: freedom. There is no more freedom in Facebook than there is standing face-to-face with your dearest loved one, a random stranger, your grandmother. In fact, I would argue that there is actually much less freedom in these virtual lands of limitless reach because what you share is not being shared in the closeness of friendships, the personalness of family, the trust of your grandmother. It's not just going out to one person or an elevator full of people you'll never see again. You're sharing irreversible, unerasable information with an endless list of friends, acquaintances, family, strangers, friends of friends...
Facebook's repercussions are not just about what you're saying about yourself out there to the world. Certainly there are many avenues of self expression that are just as public as a Facebook status. Facebook's repercussions are about those that your messages are reaching. Words have power, and in a medium like Facebook, the reach of that power is extreme and unfathomable. Harsh or cruel words for loved ones, embarrassing moments of good friends, passive aggression, words of hate, rumors...there is simply no room for this level of irresponsibility. Not behind closed doors, not on a street corner, not on Facebook. Take responsibility. Man or woman up. Problems with people should be dealt with with people. Not with the public. Please stop using Facebook as a medium of harm and turn it into something beautiful. Use Facebook for good, for uplifting those around you, for making the world a little better place. It's your responsibility.
I find myself wondering lately what goes through people's minds when they post things to Facebook. What goes through my mind? As a rarer than most poster, I feel like what I post is about as random as my life in general. A quick perusal of this year's posts so far, my posts have included a few photos of random happenings in life (coffee, an event or two, engagement photo) and some random updates about workouts, weather, work, a few birthday messages to friends. And sometimes I wonder if even that has been too much. It's not overly exciting. They don't mean much. To me, this is sort of the equivalent of making small talk with someone you haven't seen in a while because for the most part, it is indeed small talk with people I nearly never see.
Recently, I have been witnessing more and more Facebook freakouts. Many of the posts I read are not small talk with acquaintances but rather deeply personal and directed updates about breakups or family members, not so subtle passive aggressive messages, and even intensely personal medical procedures/updates. There are hurtful, uncomfortable, painful things being published out there for all to see, and to what end?
Now, we need to pause here again to note that I realize that this blog is not so different from a Facebook status update. And if you dig through its pages, you will find deep hurts revealed amidst various reflections and personal details of my life. So I get it. It feels good to get things out of your brain, off your chest, and into the universe.
But there is a level of responsibility that comes with public domains like Facebook, like this blog, that is being forgotten and perhaps eliminated completely. And the deterioration of this responsibility is being considered, I think, something it is absolutely not: freedom. There is no more freedom in Facebook than there is standing face-to-face with your dearest loved one, a random stranger, your grandmother. In fact, I would argue that there is actually much less freedom in these virtual lands of limitless reach because what you share is not being shared in the closeness of friendships, the personalness of family, the trust of your grandmother. It's not just going out to one person or an elevator full of people you'll never see again. You're sharing irreversible, unerasable information with an endless list of friends, acquaintances, family, strangers, friends of friends...
Facebook's repercussions are not just about what you're saying about yourself out there to the world. Certainly there are many avenues of self expression that are just as public as a Facebook status. Facebook's repercussions are about those that your messages are reaching. Words have power, and in a medium like Facebook, the reach of that power is extreme and unfathomable. Harsh or cruel words for loved ones, embarrassing moments of good friends, passive aggression, words of hate, rumors...there is simply no room for this level of irresponsibility. Not behind closed doors, not on a street corner, not on Facebook. Take responsibility. Man or woman up. Problems with people should be dealt with with people. Not with the public. Please stop using Facebook as a medium of harm and turn it into something beautiful. Use Facebook for good, for uplifting those around you, for making the world a little better place. It's your responsibility.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Engagement Treasures
There's something to be said for treasuring every phase of your life to the extent that one can, but let's be honest that some phases of life are more treasurable than others. For instance, I'm not so sure that I will look back and be able to state with certainty that I treasured my dissertation writing phase of life. I hopefully can at least say I survived it, I muddled through it, I, um, accomplished it. I doubt I will say I treasured it.
And hearing of and even in some cases witnessing horror stories of engagements, I'm not so sure that three months ago I would have put being engaged on the to-be-treasured list. However, half way through this business, I must say I am having far too much fun.
There are just certain things that one only EVER gets to do while engaged. I had never really thought of this before, but lately, this is becoming really apparent. Beside the obvious fact of getting to plan a wedding and all the details that come with it, there are tons of other things I feel like I am experiencing, discussing, and learning in this special period of life.
I get to experience the excitement of getting engaged over and over each time someone finds out. New girlish squeals abound, and we all dance around and hug and smile. This also sometimes happens between Derrick and I when we realize how many days or weeks we have left to go before life together begins (okay, so he doesn't squeal and dance about, but I usually do). I have been able to discuss many things I did not expect to discuss with anyone. Amongst my closest friends, topics of, ahem, marital bliss have come up more times in the last two weeks than my entire life previous. It's strange and delightful. And enlightening. And I feel like I have learned so much about myself, my impending wifehood (wifery? wifeishness?), us, our strengths and gifts and how those somehow come together in one house and one life together.
I am so very glad for the choices we have made. I would not have wanted a longer engagement than six months no matter how wonderful this treasured time is because, let's be honest, the real treasure awaits me after the engagement - my husband. But I am so glad that I get the gift of a cherished, treasured engagement that is sure to be followed by a cherished, treasured marriage.
And hearing of and even in some cases witnessing horror stories of engagements, I'm not so sure that three months ago I would have put being engaged on the to-be-treasured list. However, half way through this business, I must say I am having far too much fun.
There are just certain things that one only EVER gets to do while engaged. I had never really thought of this before, but lately, this is becoming really apparent. Beside the obvious fact of getting to plan a wedding and all the details that come with it, there are tons of other things I feel like I am experiencing, discussing, and learning in this special period of life.
I get to experience the excitement of getting engaged over and over each time someone finds out. New girlish squeals abound, and we all dance around and hug and smile. This also sometimes happens between Derrick and I when we realize how many days or weeks we have left to go before life together begins (okay, so he doesn't squeal and dance about, but I usually do). I have been able to discuss many things I did not expect to discuss with anyone. Amongst my closest friends, topics of, ahem, marital bliss have come up more times in the last two weeks than my entire life previous. It's strange and delightful. And enlightening. And I feel like I have learned so much about myself, my impending wifehood (wifery? wifeishness?), us, our strengths and gifts and how those somehow come together in one house and one life together.
I am so very glad for the choices we have made. I would not have wanted a longer engagement than six months no matter how wonderful this treasured time is because, let's be honest, the real treasure awaits me after the engagement - my husband. But I am so glad that I get the gift of a cherished, treasured engagement that is sure to be followed by a cherished, treasured marriage.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
On Inexperience (or Giant Training)
This morning, in a one-on-one meeting with a colleague, I was faced with a number of suggestions. A little brief context for what it's worth: I am responsible for developing and implementing two courses on campus, both of which have either taken a slow wander of the initial path or leapt off the path on purpose. Add into that the receipt of a grant, some new texts and tools to implement, and you've got one mighty challenge on your hands.
The initial suggestion was that I pull together a committee to get clarity on the direction that the courses should be going in order to get the framework settled. Again, a little context: we already did that once, and I generally loath writing by committee. I expressed these things in response and was met with yet another suggestion: you create the framework, then present it to the committee.
The suggestion was probably valid enough save for one thing. The committee of folks that would be pulled together have more years of experience as individuals than years I have been alive. They were the founders, more or less of the courses. I consider them to be the few and mighty that stand in a place of high honor and respect. Doesn't it all seem a little backwards? To send me, who is currently gaining some of her first experiences in the faculty world, into a room of giants with my ideas of what their course should look like? I think people around here exceptionally overestimate my abilities.
But by the time I got back to my office, something started to sink in a little bit. People are indeed overestimating my abilities, putting me in risky positions of responsibility, directly in the shadows of the giants...because they trust me to do it. And upon further inspection of the idea, is there a better way to learn and grow as a professional than that? These giants are giants in their own rights, but they are caring, nurturing, safe giants who, just maybe, are working on raising up another giant in their midst.
This particular juncture of my career life is incredibly rich and stuffed full of blessings that until today I was viewing as something equivalent to burdens. I couldn't understand why anyone would want a young-ish, inexperienced professional, still in the throes of her training and education, to take on things that looked like department head work, like experienced teacher stuff, stuff meant for those who have been around the block. But these challenges, these new experiences, these shadows-of-giants encounters are indescribably valuable blessings that are, in fact, preparing me for gianthood.
So, does it make any sense for me to prepare and present something to the ones that really were the founders of the great things I'm a part of now? Certainly not. Will I accept the responsibility as giant training? With deep appreciation and joy. No longer will I quiver in the shadow of the giants, worrying about every little thing, attempting not to be seen or heard. Instead, from their shadows, I will look up, watch closely, accept criticisms, and allow myself to grow. How thankful I am for the giants around me who care little that I am not yet standing among them. How grateful I am to be given the opportunities to live in their shadows.
Time to get back to work. There's giant training coming.
The initial suggestion was that I pull together a committee to get clarity on the direction that the courses should be going in order to get the framework settled. Again, a little context: we already did that once, and I generally loath writing by committee. I expressed these things in response and was met with yet another suggestion: you create the framework, then present it to the committee.
The suggestion was probably valid enough save for one thing. The committee of folks that would be pulled together have more years of experience as individuals than years I have been alive. They were the founders, more or less of the courses. I consider them to be the few and mighty that stand in a place of high honor and respect. Doesn't it all seem a little backwards? To send me, who is currently gaining some of her first experiences in the faculty world, into a room of giants with my ideas of what their course should look like? I think people around here exceptionally overestimate my abilities.
But by the time I got back to my office, something started to sink in a little bit. People are indeed overestimating my abilities, putting me in risky positions of responsibility, directly in the shadows of the giants...because they trust me to do it. And upon further inspection of the idea, is there a better way to learn and grow as a professional than that? These giants are giants in their own rights, but they are caring, nurturing, safe giants who, just maybe, are working on raising up another giant in their midst.
This particular juncture of my career life is incredibly rich and stuffed full of blessings that until today I was viewing as something equivalent to burdens. I couldn't understand why anyone would want a young-ish, inexperienced professional, still in the throes of her training and education, to take on things that looked like department head work, like experienced teacher stuff, stuff meant for those who have been around the block. But these challenges, these new experiences, these shadows-of-giants encounters are indescribably valuable blessings that are, in fact, preparing me for gianthood.
So, does it make any sense for me to prepare and present something to the ones that really were the founders of the great things I'm a part of now? Certainly not. Will I accept the responsibility as giant training? With deep appreciation and joy. No longer will I quiver in the shadow of the giants, worrying about every little thing, attempting not to be seen or heard. Instead, from their shadows, I will look up, watch closely, accept criticisms, and allow myself to grow. How thankful I am for the giants around me who care little that I am not yet standing among them. How grateful I am to be given the opportunities to live in their shadows.
Time to get back to work. There's giant training coming.
Saturday, March 08, 2014
Moving Out and Moving On
As Derrick and I draw nearer to our marriage (three months to go!), I have found myself to be far more reflective amidst all the pragmatism required for the wedding and life-together details that must be sorted out. The practical, detaily things that must be approached have begun to morph, each expanding and grabbing hold of more meaning than I originally allowed them. The process has been somewhat overwhelming, but I also revel in the joy, the contemplation, and the anticipation that come with all of these reflections.
As a gift of sorts to Derrick before our marriage, I offered to move out of my home and then work together to move into our home. Now, for those unaware, "my home" and "our home" happen to be the same house. It makes the thought of moving out far more foreign and bizarre. At first, even Derrick suggested that it was simply too much work and not necessary. He liked where the furniture was and how the kitchen was organized. For the last almost two years, he has been able to make sense of the space as we share it on a part-time basis. But the problem with this arrangement is and really always has been that there is a "his" space and a "hers" space, divided by 90 miles and many weekdays apart. And in three months' time, that division will be gone. The miles, the days, the separate spaces simply will no longer exist.
Early on in recognizing that this transition would indeed take place (I mean, that is one of the reasons we're getting married after all), I began to realize that in my mind, my home would always be just that - mine. Not ours. It would be my place with a sudden influx of a bunch of other stuff and clothes and shoes and gear that I'd have to find a corner or a box for. I even caught myself making comments to that effect. And I realized that this would not be a one-and-done matter where problems would simply solve themselves as we settled into "my home." No, it would fester. It would forever be a point of contention as long as we stayed in "my home."
The only solution was to move out, to break the bonds of comfort I have built within the sturdy walls, the familiar arrangements. But beginning the process of moving out has done something far greater than creating a space for the both of us. As I open closets whose sole purposes have been to hide away former pieces of my life, to stockpile my history...as I touch and handle parts of my life that have been stored away, boxed up with a fair amount of permanence, I begin to see my stuff in a different light.
Prom dresses and internship uniforms. A thousand t-shirts from nearly every campus block party, program, and trip. Elementary school doodles and graduation tassels. Love notes and journals. These are the pieces that make up my history, that are placeholders for the memories created with every experience. Although some of these act as relics, archeological artifacts that will elicit the giggles of our future children and grandchildren someday, much of the stuff I had once treasured and moved with me from place to place suddenly seemed far less significant. The physical pieces weren't what kept my history together.
So together, Derrick and I opened countless boxes, chuckled at old photographs, sorted through what I thought were the things that crafted my history, and boldly proclaimed much of it trash. And in those moments, there was no sorrow, no lament of the loss of all of my stuff. It was more like liberation. A moving on of sorts. A clearing away of unnecessary things to make room for all that is to come.
These days, "my house" is beginning to feel a little more like "a house" as we strip away the many things that I once was sure were my treasures. As the closets and the cabinets empty one by one, it really does look like someone is moving out. And someone is. Moving out and moving on. From "my home" to "our home." A transformation that could not have happened any other way, but that symbolizes so much more than just two spaces coming together. Two lives are coming together, ready to face whatever is to come. Together.
As a gift of sorts to Derrick before our marriage, I offered to move out of my home and then work together to move into our home. Now, for those unaware, "my home" and "our home" happen to be the same house. It makes the thought of moving out far more foreign and bizarre. At first, even Derrick suggested that it was simply too much work and not necessary. He liked where the furniture was and how the kitchen was organized. For the last almost two years, he has been able to make sense of the space as we share it on a part-time basis. But the problem with this arrangement is and really always has been that there is a "his" space and a "hers" space, divided by 90 miles and many weekdays apart. And in three months' time, that division will be gone. The miles, the days, the separate spaces simply will no longer exist.
Early on in recognizing that this transition would indeed take place (I mean, that is one of the reasons we're getting married after all), I began to realize that in my mind, my home would always be just that - mine. Not ours. It would be my place with a sudden influx of a bunch of other stuff and clothes and shoes and gear that I'd have to find a corner or a box for. I even caught myself making comments to that effect. And I realized that this would not be a one-and-done matter where problems would simply solve themselves as we settled into "my home." No, it would fester. It would forever be a point of contention as long as we stayed in "my home."
The only solution was to move out, to break the bonds of comfort I have built within the sturdy walls, the familiar arrangements. But beginning the process of moving out has done something far greater than creating a space for the both of us. As I open closets whose sole purposes have been to hide away former pieces of my life, to stockpile my history...as I touch and handle parts of my life that have been stored away, boxed up with a fair amount of permanence, I begin to see my stuff in a different light.
Prom dresses and internship uniforms. A thousand t-shirts from nearly every campus block party, program, and trip. Elementary school doodles and graduation tassels. Love notes and journals. These are the pieces that make up my history, that are placeholders for the memories created with every experience. Although some of these act as relics, archeological artifacts that will elicit the giggles of our future children and grandchildren someday, much of the stuff I had once treasured and moved with me from place to place suddenly seemed far less significant. The physical pieces weren't what kept my history together.
So together, Derrick and I opened countless boxes, chuckled at old photographs, sorted through what I thought were the things that crafted my history, and boldly proclaimed much of it trash. And in those moments, there was no sorrow, no lament of the loss of all of my stuff. It was more like liberation. A moving on of sorts. A clearing away of unnecessary things to make room for all that is to come.
These days, "my house" is beginning to feel a little more like "a house" as we strip away the many things that I once was sure were my treasures. As the closets and the cabinets empty one by one, it really does look like someone is moving out. And someone is. Moving out and moving on. From "my home" to "our home." A transformation that could not have happened any other way, but that symbolizes so much more than just two spaces coming together. Two lives are coming together, ready to face whatever is to come. Together.
Saturday, March 01, 2014
Update on the Update Addiction
I've been somewhat hesitant to write an update of my previous blog post because, well, it seems that posting it would indicate I have failed my mission. But after over a week of trying to make some adjustments, there have been a number of things worthy of reflection.
The rules, or perhaps guidelines, I had set for myself were not particularly complicated, but for me some of them seemed like a stretch. Close the perpetual feeds like Facebook most of the day, use one browser window at a time; limit notifications of the far too many email accounts that I have and when I check them; leave the phone away in meetings, meals, and face-to-face conversations; and TV is not a white noise device.
I tackled the too-many-email accounts-and-notifications issue first. After work last Friday, I set to the task of changing all of the notifications in my phone. I turned all notification buzzing or sounds off. Not wanting to be completely oblivious, I did leave the blinky light option on for now. This is a process after all, right? As a bonus though, I attempted to eliminate one email address completely by unlinking all of my Google Drive files from one of my Gmail accounts.
The act of turning the buzzing off was far more freeing than I anticipated. Usually, when my phone buzzes, I immediately turn on the screen, view the email, decide whether to keep it or eliminate it, then turn off the screen. That sounded really efficient until I realized that the phone may buzz 30-40 times a day. A DAY! And each time, a distraction from whatever I was doing. Now, when my phone buzzes maybe twice a day, it's usually a phone call or something actually of value. The rest of my day enjoys its new found freedom from the buzzing.
The web browsing habits were not so instant gratifying, however. I immediately decided to close the multiple browsing windows and keep Facebook and Twitter closed while at work, but a funny thing happened. Although the screen was empty, the physical habits remained. As I attempted to read an essay for curriculum preparations this week, after about every paragraph, I would find myself instinctively glancing at my screen. EVERY PARAGRAPH?! That's a lot of interruptions for there being nothing to look at! After a week without multiple distractions on screen, I actually find that I am still doing this. These distracted habits run deep. But I am determined. More work on this to come.
Other deeply entrenched habits remain as well, but they are seeming easier to navigate. Once home from work, my phone screen is perpetually checked, just to make sure I didn't miss anything important. I still really want to do this, but I have found that the ever so simple solution of putting the phone away in it's case has pretty much solved this. I don't have the desire to check it if it's not out in front of me, tempting me to glance just one more time. I am pleased with this tiny glimpse into freedom. This same philosophy has kept my phone away at meetings, at meals, and in face-to-face conversations, and frankly, people have noticed. And that tells me that my distractions where not only distractions to me, but they were actually creating distractions for others around me. Wow. How clueless I truly was.
TV was also a simple fix. I've never really been that in love with television. I just don't find most of it entertaining. But sometimes I did think that it made a nice white noise machine, as if surly I could study better or be more productive with it on. Duh. No. Turing it off has allowed me to really focus again, letting my brain soak up words on a page or in my project rather than the babbling words from some redundant sitcom or sports announcer.
It came up in our book club in the last meeting we had that one reader wished that Nicholas Carr would have suggested a solution, a how-to guide to fixing all of our technology-distraction woes. And true, there was no 12 step program to follow tucked in the appendix of the book, but I don't think that means that Carr has not suggested the solutions we all know exist. The truth is, we all know that we can't escape the Internet world, lest we decide to become Amish or live on a deserted island somewhere. It's too big, too pervasive, too convenient, and too necessary to how we all now live. But we can control it. In the days of Google Now and Siri, services that claim to understand and really know you... In the days of notifications and multitasking and background noise and hyper-connectedness, we still have choices to make. We can choose to fall victim to it all, letting in envelope our lives, our days, our work, and our brains. Or we can choose to take control back, to put limits on our technology, to think clearly and uninterrupted, to be quiet and still, to find balance.
I really think that is the solution. That is the how-to guide. It doesn't look the same for all of us. Some are deeper in the tech trenches than others. Some are more addicted, committed, controlled than others. But we all can take a look around us, a good hard look, and choose what is really, honestly helping us and what is actually hurting us.
You won't find me in a bonnet and buggy anytime soon. I do not intend to ever become Amish or a cave dweller or disappear on some deserted island. I appreciate many of the good and wonderful things that internet technology has given me. But I do have full intentions of keeping my brain. My relationships. My love of adventure and fresh air and clear thoughts. I choose less multitasking. Less notifications. Less Pavlovian screen glancing. It's a process and a journey, and I am excited to continue on it quietly and undistractedly.
The rules, or perhaps guidelines, I had set for myself were not particularly complicated, but for me some of them seemed like a stretch. Close the perpetual feeds like Facebook most of the day, use one browser window at a time; limit notifications of the far too many email accounts that I have and when I check them; leave the phone away in meetings, meals, and face-to-face conversations; and TV is not a white noise device.
I tackled the too-many-email accounts-and-notifications issue first. After work last Friday, I set to the task of changing all of the notifications in my phone. I turned all notification buzzing or sounds off. Not wanting to be completely oblivious, I did leave the blinky light option on for now. This is a process after all, right? As a bonus though, I attempted to eliminate one email address completely by unlinking all of my Google Drive files from one of my Gmail accounts.
The act of turning the buzzing off was far more freeing than I anticipated. Usually, when my phone buzzes, I immediately turn on the screen, view the email, decide whether to keep it or eliminate it, then turn off the screen. That sounded really efficient until I realized that the phone may buzz 30-40 times a day. A DAY! And each time, a distraction from whatever I was doing. Now, when my phone buzzes maybe twice a day, it's usually a phone call or something actually of value. The rest of my day enjoys its new found freedom from the buzzing.
The web browsing habits were not so instant gratifying, however. I immediately decided to close the multiple browsing windows and keep Facebook and Twitter closed while at work, but a funny thing happened. Although the screen was empty, the physical habits remained. As I attempted to read an essay for curriculum preparations this week, after about every paragraph, I would find myself instinctively glancing at my screen. EVERY PARAGRAPH?! That's a lot of interruptions for there being nothing to look at! After a week without multiple distractions on screen, I actually find that I am still doing this. These distracted habits run deep. But I am determined. More work on this to come.
Other deeply entrenched habits remain as well, but they are seeming easier to navigate. Once home from work, my phone screen is perpetually checked, just to make sure I didn't miss anything important. I still really want to do this, but I have found that the ever so simple solution of putting the phone away in it's case has pretty much solved this. I don't have the desire to check it if it's not out in front of me, tempting me to glance just one more time. I am pleased with this tiny glimpse into freedom. This same philosophy has kept my phone away at meetings, at meals, and in face-to-face conversations, and frankly, people have noticed. And that tells me that my distractions where not only distractions to me, but they were actually creating distractions for others around me. Wow. How clueless I truly was.
TV was also a simple fix. I've never really been that in love with television. I just don't find most of it entertaining. But sometimes I did think that it made a nice white noise machine, as if surly I could study better or be more productive with it on. Duh. No. Turing it off has allowed me to really focus again, letting my brain soak up words on a page or in my project rather than the babbling words from some redundant sitcom or sports announcer.
It came up in our book club in the last meeting we had that one reader wished that Nicholas Carr would have suggested a solution, a how-to guide to fixing all of our technology-distraction woes. And true, there was no 12 step program to follow tucked in the appendix of the book, but I don't think that means that Carr has not suggested the solutions we all know exist. The truth is, we all know that we can't escape the Internet world, lest we decide to become Amish or live on a deserted island somewhere. It's too big, too pervasive, too convenient, and too necessary to how we all now live. But we can control it. In the days of Google Now and Siri, services that claim to understand and really know you... In the days of notifications and multitasking and background noise and hyper-connectedness, we still have choices to make. We can choose to fall victim to it all, letting in envelope our lives, our days, our work, and our brains. Or we can choose to take control back, to put limits on our technology, to think clearly and uninterrupted, to be quiet and still, to find balance.
I really think that is the solution. That is the how-to guide. It doesn't look the same for all of us. Some are deeper in the tech trenches than others. Some are more addicted, committed, controlled than others. But we all can take a look around us, a good hard look, and choose what is really, honestly helping us and what is actually hurting us.
You won't find me in a bonnet and buggy anytime soon. I do not intend to ever become Amish or a cave dweller or disappear on some deserted island. I appreciate many of the good and wonderful things that internet technology has given me. But I do have full intentions of keeping my brain. My relationships. My love of adventure and fresh air and clear thoughts. I choose less multitasking. Less notifications. Less Pavlovian screen glancing. It's a process and a journey, and I am excited to continue on it quietly and undistractedly.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Confessions of an Update Addict
I proclaimed to the world all of the benefits of being a natural multitasker, an efficient researcher, a connected friend through the wonderful means of this thing called the internet. Have you followed the local news channel on Twitter? You can get all the headlines first! Did you see the update from So-and-So? Can you believe it? Have you seen the viral video about goats on a steel ribbon?! Oh, hang on a sec, I just got an email...a Facebook message...a text... Sure I can shop for camping gear while writing my dissertation. Why not shop on Etsy while talking on the phone? Woot just posted a new sale!
I didn't realize, or maybe refused to acknowledge, what was happening to me. And as I ignored it, it got worse. The addiction grew and grew until I was blinded to the fact that I had a problem at all. But I do have a problem. I'm an update addict.
Facebook scrolls numerous feeds of mostly useless things my "friends" (anyone I've ever met, basically) are doing. Twitter feeds me news headlines, professional conversations, and Instagram photos. Google provides me with an endless supply of material to peruse on literally any topic I can think of. Shopping sites tease me with sales that last for minutes. I have five different email accounts, all of which fill with junk, promotions, and the occasional message from someone I know. And all of this happens all day, everyday, non-stop.
And there I sit, at my desk at work, with the phone laying face-up in plain site so that I am ensured to never miss an indicator light, buzz, or reminder. And on my screen at any given time, you can find seven or eight or maybe a dozen different web browser tabs open, some with work items, but most with other feed-based, update style stuff. Day after day, I wonder as 5:00 nears, what did I really get done today? Some days the checklist gets knocked down significantly. Some days, not a single task gets finished completely. I come home, crack open my laptop, phone beside me of course, and eat my dinner with the TV on. I chip away at tiny fragments of my dissertation, but the kitchen stays a mess, the laundry doesn't get done, and I usually go to bed far too late.
The pervasiveness of the internet has invaded every element of my life, and frankly, it has changed almost every element of my life. It changes my behaviors, my productivity, my focus, the very way that I think. My entire life has become a series of distractions caused by a series of endless updates. And I probably would have gone on believing that this distracted life was both normal and beneficial, had it not been for my enjoyment of the frequent UD faculty/staff book clubs.
The past few weeks we have been diving into a book called The Shallows: What the Internet is doing to Our Brains by Nicholas Carr, and today chapter seven stopped me in my tracks. First of all, know that I recognized after the first few chapters that I was a poster child for whom this book was probably written. Being on the younger end of the book club participants, there were many things that I resonated with and even unabashedly proclaimed as advantages in my life over the other viewpoints presented. I was tech savvy, could research quickly using software and search tools, I could multitask and not get overwhelmed, I didn't need to carry a pile of books because reading on screen is normal....
But then there was chapter seven. In this chapter, Carr goes from merely stating the facts about what the internet provides and how users interface with it to digging into studies about what all of this updatedness is really doing to our brains. Study after study noted that the more distracted a person was, be it with links, related searches, scrolling text updates, the less they really took in and retained. In fact, just the style of the internet with its myriad of updates and look-over-here's in and of itself causes the brain to constantly try to shift gears when darting from one thing to the next. And that little place between your short and long term memory, known as working memory, only typically has so many gears that it can deal with. The constant distraction of a distraction-based medium has actually rewired our brains to think differently in order to deal with all of the constant inputs. The result? Diminished recall and retention of information and lost time and efficiency in deep thinking and concentration to name a few. And making matters worse, this brain behavior is often rewarded, driven by the fear of missing out on something important or the excitement that comes with finding information on nearly anything when you need it.
And suddenly, things are starting to make sense. My lack of productivity at work, especially this semester, my slower than desired dissertation pace, all the email accounts and blinky cell phone notifications and tabs on my web browsers, and... I have rewired my brain. And not for the better. I have given in to the temptation of the update at the expense of my memory, my concentration, my focus. I have opted for distractions as the focus, and those distractions have thrown me in a landfill of other distractions, each vying for my eyes, my brain, my time.
Luckily, the brain is not developmentally unidirectional. If things can be learned, they can be unlearned. If the internet has rewired my brain, then control of the internet can rewire it again. This will not be an easy task. It will mean conquering an addiction so pervasive in my life, I was ignorant to its existence. But it is time. It's time to shake free of the distraction world, at least in part, and regain the world of focus.
Here's what I believe I can reasonably accomplish and commit to attempting indefinitely:
(To give you an idea of just how tough this commitment will be, during the typing of this post, which took just over a half an hour, I have checked or posted on Facebook at least six times, turned on my phone screen twice, looked at Twitter twice, checked for new emails once, and have eight tabs open in Firefox. Tough doesn't even begin to describe what I'm about to face.)
I didn't realize, or maybe refused to acknowledge, what was happening to me. And as I ignored it, it got worse. The addiction grew and grew until I was blinded to the fact that I had a problem at all. But I do have a problem. I'm an update addict.
Facebook scrolls numerous feeds of mostly useless things my "friends" (anyone I've ever met, basically) are doing. Twitter feeds me news headlines, professional conversations, and Instagram photos. Google provides me with an endless supply of material to peruse on literally any topic I can think of. Shopping sites tease me with sales that last for minutes. I have five different email accounts, all of which fill with junk, promotions, and the occasional message from someone I know. And all of this happens all day, everyday, non-stop.
And there I sit, at my desk at work, with the phone laying face-up in plain site so that I am ensured to never miss an indicator light, buzz, or reminder. And on my screen at any given time, you can find seven or eight or maybe a dozen different web browser tabs open, some with work items, but most with other feed-based, update style stuff. Day after day, I wonder as 5:00 nears, what did I really get done today? Some days the checklist gets knocked down significantly. Some days, not a single task gets finished completely. I come home, crack open my laptop, phone beside me of course, and eat my dinner with the TV on. I chip away at tiny fragments of my dissertation, but the kitchen stays a mess, the laundry doesn't get done, and I usually go to bed far too late.
The pervasiveness of the internet has invaded every element of my life, and frankly, it has changed almost every element of my life. It changes my behaviors, my productivity, my focus, the very way that I think. My entire life has become a series of distractions caused by a series of endless updates. And I probably would have gone on believing that this distracted life was both normal and beneficial, had it not been for my enjoyment of the frequent UD faculty/staff book clubs.
The past few weeks we have been diving into a book called The Shallows: What the Internet is doing to Our Brains by Nicholas Carr, and today chapter seven stopped me in my tracks. First of all, know that I recognized after the first few chapters that I was a poster child for whom this book was probably written. Being on the younger end of the book club participants, there were many things that I resonated with and even unabashedly proclaimed as advantages in my life over the other viewpoints presented. I was tech savvy, could research quickly using software and search tools, I could multitask and not get overwhelmed, I didn't need to carry a pile of books because reading on screen is normal....
But then there was chapter seven. In this chapter, Carr goes from merely stating the facts about what the internet provides and how users interface with it to digging into studies about what all of this updatedness is really doing to our brains. Study after study noted that the more distracted a person was, be it with links, related searches, scrolling text updates, the less they really took in and retained. In fact, just the style of the internet with its myriad of updates and look-over-here's in and of itself causes the brain to constantly try to shift gears when darting from one thing to the next. And that little place between your short and long term memory, known as working memory, only typically has so many gears that it can deal with. The constant distraction of a distraction-based medium has actually rewired our brains to think differently in order to deal with all of the constant inputs. The result? Diminished recall and retention of information and lost time and efficiency in deep thinking and concentration to name a few. And making matters worse, this brain behavior is often rewarded, driven by the fear of missing out on something important or the excitement that comes with finding information on nearly anything when you need it.
And suddenly, things are starting to make sense. My lack of productivity at work, especially this semester, my slower than desired dissertation pace, all the email accounts and blinky cell phone notifications and tabs on my web browsers, and... I have rewired my brain. And not for the better. I have given in to the temptation of the update at the expense of my memory, my concentration, my focus. I have opted for distractions as the focus, and those distractions have thrown me in a landfill of other distractions, each vying for my eyes, my brain, my time.
Luckily, the brain is not developmentally unidirectional. If things can be learned, they can be unlearned. If the internet has rewired my brain, then control of the internet can rewire it again. This will not be an easy task. It will mean conquering an addiction so pervasive in my life, I was ignorant to its existence. But it is time. It's time to shake free of the distraction world, at least in part, and regain the world of focus.
Here's what I believe I can reasonably accomplish and commit to attempting indefinitely:
- I will not leave my Facebook and Twitter feeds open all day long. And I will not check them on my phone throughout the day. These feeds can be checked before work, right after work, and if need be, at lunch time. Right now they are continuously open and cause perpetual distractions as I'm working.
- I will use one browser tab at a time at work and while dissertating. Bookmarks and web addresses can be retyped if I want to get back to something. I can only think of a few rare situations that using more than one tab was actually useful (viewing two spreadsheets or copying and pasting text from one source to another, perhaps).
- I will not check my other email accounts throughout the day at work, in church, while out and about (say, shopping), or during face-to-face conversations with people. My phone vibrates right now every time I get an email on any of my five accounts. Thus, I check the emails each time one comes in. That could reasonably be 30-40 times a day or more.
- During meetings and meals, I will leave my phone away. No one needs to get a hold of my that badly, and no update is as important as the meeting I'm already in or the sustenance I put in my body.
- The TV doesn't really play nice with any other productive thing, so it will be left off unless I decide want to do nothing but watch TV.
(To give you an idea of just how tough this commitment will be, during the typing of this post, which took just over a half an hour, I have checked or posted on Facebook at least six times, turned on my phone screen twice, looked at Twitter twice, checked for new emails once, and have eight tabs open in Firefox. Tough doesn't even begin to describe what I'm about to face.)
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Becoming a Better Teacher
I will confess that I often struggle in my role at the university. As an anomaly caught between two worlds, I find myself identifying with faculty as well as with my co-middle managers in the administration. The beginning of this term has me reflecting on my teaching abilities as a faculty member.
After a month or so of procrastinating the task, last week I finally started unsealing the envelopes that held the student evaluations for the course that I coordinated for the first time this fall. Perhaps I knew to some extent what they might say, and perhaps I already knew that I wouldn't want to see the feedback.
As a fairly new professor with only a few classes under my belt, I was tasked with developing an entirely new course, one in which 36 other instructors were strung along at my bidding, trying to implement the curriculum that I placed before them. At the time of the tasking, due to the rushed timeline mainly, I didn't really stop to think how daunting something like this might actually be. I didn't consider that the instructors wouldn't like some of it or that the students wouldn't dig into the content. I just frantically pulled together lectures and discussions, readings and writing prompts, mostly as we went along, hoping that it would be met with some level of success.
And then I opened that first envelope.
Students were asked what their favorite part of the course was, what they felt they learned the most about, how they identified with the materials and lectures, and what they would change if they could. And boy did students respond. After about the 400th evaluation, I could read no more. I was heart broken and defeated. And I was pretty sure that I never wanted to go in front of a group of students again. I had failed them, and they were disappointed. I showed my true colors of an unprepared, inexperienced novice of an instructor that no amount of bluffing or exuded confidence could mask.
After some time with this crushing blow, and a few meetings with supervisors that offered a much more experienced perspective, I started reading through the evaluations a second time. This time, I took me out of the equation. I filtered the bratty, snide remarks aimed directly at me, and really read what the students were saying. And what I read the second time started to amaze rather than burden me.
Most students could identify something that they liked about the course. It may have been the comfy chairs in the auditorium, but it was still something. Many students could identify a specific topic or lecture that they enjoyed because of how it spoke to them or how they interacted with the material. Nearly everyone could identify something that they actually learned something about. And almost everyone felt invited into a community of peers and instructors, noting discussions, informality, openness as key traits to that community. A few students indicated that they wanted to dig deeper, to learn more, to discuss more about certain topics.
Let's be honest, most of the evaluations were definitely negative. But as that inexperienced novice of an instructor, I can choose to view these one of two ways: 1) They hated me and and I'm a bad teacher that isn't worthy to stand in front of students ever, or 2) There are lots of ways that I can improve this course and my teaching to further reach and impact students' lives. Frankly, I prefer the latter. As it turns out, teaching experienced can only beget teaching experience. I was blessed with certain traits, gifts, and abilities that allowed me to gravitate to the field I am in, but it is only with hard earned years of training, critical evaluations, and intentional improvements that I can really become a better teacher.
I didn't leave the university after all of those bad evaluations which means that I will once again be given the opportunity to develop a curriculum, work with other faculty, and attempt to reach into students' lives with information and knowledge that the university believes to have value. Bad course evaluations are not a weapon. They're a tool. The ability to tell the difference and use them appropriately is what will make me into a better teacher.
Now, where's my textbook?
After a month or so of procrastinating the task, last week I finally started unsealing the envelopes that held the student evaluations for the course that I coordinated for the first time this fall. Perhaps I knew to some extent what they might say, and perhaps I already knew that I wouldn't want to see the feedback.
As a fairly new professor with only a few classes under my belt, I was tasked with developing an entirely new course, one in which 36 other instructors were strung along at my bidding, trying to implement the curriculum that I placed before them. At the time of the tasking, due to the rushed timeline mainly, I didn't really stop to think how daunting something like this might actually be. I didn't consider that the instructors wouldn't like some of it or that the students wouldn't dig into the content. I just frantically pulled together lectures and discussions, readings and writing prompts, mostly as we went along, hoping that it would be met with some level of success.
And then I opened that first envelope.
Students were asked what their favorite part of the course was, what they felt they learned the most about, how they identified with the materials and lectures, and what they would change if they could. And boy did students respond. After about the 400th evaluation, I could read no more. I was heart broken and defeated. And I was pretty sure that I never wanted to go in front of a group of students again. I had failed them, and they were disappointed. I showed my true colors of an unprepared, inexperienced novice of an instructor that no amount of bluffing or exuded confidence could mask.
After some time with this crushing blow, and a few meetings with supervisors that offered a much more experienced perspective, I started reading through the evaluations a second time. This time, I took me out of the equation. I filtered the bratty, snide remarks aimed directly at me, and really read what the students were saying. And what I read the second time started to amaze rather than burden me.
Most students could identify something that they liked about the course. It may have been the comfy chairs in the auditorium, but it was still something. Many students could identify a specific topic or lecture that they enjoyed because of how it spoke to them or how they interacted with the material. Nearly everyone could identify something that they actually learned something about. And almost everyone felt invited into a community of peers and instructors, noting discussions, informality, openness as key traits to that community. A few students indicated that they wanted to dig deeper, to learn more, to discuss more about certain topics.
Let's be honest, most of the evaluations were definitely negative. But as that inexperienced novice of an instructor, I can choose to view these one of two ways: 1) They hated me and and I'm a bad teacher that isn't worthy to stand in front of students ever, or 2) There are lots of ways that I can improve this course and my teaching to further reach and impact students' lives. Frankly, I prefer the latter. As it turns out, teaching experienced can only beget teaching experience. I was blessed with certain traits, gifts, and abilities that allowed me to gravitate to the field I am in, but it is only with hard earned years of training, critical evaluations, and intentional improvements that I can really become a better teacher.
I didn't leave the university after all of those bad evaluations which means that I will once again be given the opportunity to develop a curriculum, work with other faculty, and attempt to reach into students' lives with information and knowledge that the university believes to have value. Bad course evaluations are not a weapon. They're a tool. The ability to tell the difference and use them appropriately is what will make me into a better teacher.
Now, where's my textbook?
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