A propos a conversation my online gang were having about easter and the purpose of the whole resurrection thing.
**
I've always been hard to disgust, but here's something that disgusts me. How come, when the dead return looking all decayed and unappealing, and stagger around a remote village, or a top-secret research facility, or an outpost on Mars, eating a bit of human flesh and moaning incoherently, and are then heroically defeated and pass into legend, that's a BAD thing..and yet, when the dead return looking all serene, pass a few apparently harmless remarks, and start a cult that intimidates, tortures and crusades its way across the world for a couple of millennia, killing millions of people and displacing millions more while espousing the highest motives, that's a GOOD thing? And now, this weekend, everyone wants to celebrate? That's what disgusts me.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
Snips
Actually having a couple of days at home without meetings gives me space to breathe... it's pure delightful coincidence that it's spring like and the mud-luscious world etc. is abounding.
On my streets:
- while running, yesterday, down sodden, grimy spadina to the lake: a man, running with good form, in running tights and good shoes, a running shirt... and a navy blue satin corset, and a ponytail high on his head.
- at yonge and wellesley today, a guy in a white tshirt, running shoes, the sort of red busy cargo shorts that are completely overtechnical for anything short of a rockface, and a red santa hat; then, suddenly, a naked torso as the shirt was too much for him.
- in the cafeteria at Trinity college, working in a beverage-friendly environment: an earnest young man intoning "but in nature you are CLOSEST to GOD." And an earnest, plump, long-haired, spotty young woman who could be plunked out of any of the past four decades, tutoring an older woman on the praxis of ministry -- sermon writing, managing lay people, really making people FEEL your faith.
The sun is still a bit stiff and disused, not certain it wants to lure people outside just yet. But it's making me restless.
On my streets:
- while running, yesterday, down sodden, grimy spadina to the lake: a man, running with good form, in running tights and good shoes, a running shirt... and a navy blue satin corset, and a ponytail high on his head.
- at yonge and wellesley today, a guy in a white tshirt, running shoes, the sort of red busy cargo shorts that are completely overtechnical for anything short of a rockface, and a red santa hat; then, suddenly, a naked torso as the shirt was too much for him.
- in the cafeteria at Trinity college, working in a beverage-friendly environment: an earnest young man intoning "but in nature you are CLOSEST to GOD." And an earnest, plump, long-haired, spotty young woman who could be plunked out of any of the past four decades, tutoring an older woman on the praxis of ministry -- sermon writing, managing lay people, really making people FEEL your faith.
The sun is still a bit stiff and disused, not certain it wants to lure people outside just yet. But it's making me restless.
Shedding skin
It's been just over a year since I moved into this place. An overstuffed backpack of a year, with shoes stuffed awkwardly into side pockets and not-quite-dry jackets bungied onto the back. If I string together the runs I've done over the year, I patch together a trek through the humid, ominous suburbs of Houston, a "river" trail in albuquerque where I discovered the bizarre practice of fishing in a completely created pond in the middle of the desert, a loop around the dusty old market centre of Santa Fe (where I face-planted on a loose cobble), the verdant river of central Portland, the raging open beach of the Oregon coast, the civilized sunny beach trail in Santa Barbara, the rocky beach of Monterey, the stiff suburbs of Penfield, the damp concrete of Toronto. Not as much mileage in actual *running* as many other years, but so many different touchdown points, such a map of desire and yearning and experience.
Last year at this time I was an open wound, really, still. I had moments of connection and smoothness with people, and half-formed ideas of what I wanted next, and a lot of yearning -- but a lot of blind fumbling and bouts of bleakness. Today? Lucrative, involving paid work and good collaborators. A much more focused sense of my academic work, life's work. A lover I'm passionate about and see a future with. A warm friendship with my ex. Tight bonds with other core friends.
One of the most sharp-edged effects of that year is about that emergence of "core friends" -- and a lot of chafing shedding that's gone along with that. Many factors in this -- on the surface, time, and at another level, a transmogrify of self and arenas people who can be part of this sometimes very navel-gazey shape-shifting. I've had incidental losses of friends -- people who fell off the map when B and I were not longer coupled and the connection patterns disappeared -- and I've had more wincing losses, where people bluntly told me that they didn't really like the person I am now. I can make easy meaning of this -- I *am* more self-absorbed -- simple time and also trying to focus on some pretty massive things I'm doing -- but it still stings.
It's a kind of... consolidation process. A collecting of the critical mass of people who are my compatriorts through the different gateposts, who have lust for an resilience and acceptance about continual self-creation. My tribe, as it emerges and shifts.
There are people I wish I simply had more time to hang out with, more space to let in -- because they're fascinating, lovely, warm and amazing people. And I've also found new...deep clicks. One completely new friend who is a loving co-conspirator as we each go through our different self-authoring... and two people in my academic world I am always more tightly wound to. A colleague I am partnered and balanced with as never before. F, of course -- so much possibility, so much now.
The people who've fallen away... skin shedding is the right metaphor. They were part of me, they helped shape who I was, they wrapped around me. And, as I grew, as I went through new seasons... the cells were no longer vibrant and alive. The hollow, dried husk of skin left behind is reminder, is poignant, is something I'm grateful for... and I feel twinges of regret and guilt for not being the person they could have stayed connected to. But I'm not unhappy with my vibrant, wriggling self, scooting forward, more aware of what I'm doing in my relationships, how we're making each other.
Last year at this time I was an open wound, really, still. I had moments of connection and smoothness with people, and half-formed ideas of what I wanted next, and a lot of yearning -- but a lot of blind fumbling and bouts of bleakness. Today? Lucrative, involving paid work and good collaborators. A much more focused sense of my academic work, life's work. A lover I'm passionate about and see a future with. A warm friendship with my ex. Tight bonds with other core friends.
One of the most sharp-edged effects of that year is about that emergence of "core friends" -- and a lot of chafing shedding that's gone along with that. Many factors in this -- on the surface, time, and at another level, a transmogrify of self and arenas people who can be part of this sometimes very navel-gazey shape-shifting. I've had incidental losses of friends -- people who fell off the map when B and I were not longer coupled and the connection patterns disappeared -- and I've had more wincing losses, where people bluntly told me that they didn't really like the person I am now. I can make easy meaning of this -- I *am* more self-absorbed -- simple time and also trying to focus on some pretty massive things I'm doing -- but it still stings.
It's a kind of... consolidation process. A collecting of the critical mass of people who are my compatriorts through the different gateposts, who have lust for an resilience and acceptance about continual self-creation. My tribe, as it emerges and shifts.
There are people I wish I simply had more time to hang out with, more space to let in -- because they're fascinating, lovely, warm and amazing people. And I've also found new...deep clicks. One completely new friend who is a loving co-conspirator as we each go through our different self-authoring... and two people in my academic world I am always more tightly wound to. A colleague I am partnered and balanced with as never before. F, of course -- so much possibility, so much now.
The people who've fallen away... skin shedding is the right metaphor. They were part of me, they helped shape who I was, they wrapped around me. And, as I grew, as I went through new seasons... the cells were no longer vibrant and alive. The hollow, dried husk of skin left behind is reminder, is poignant, is something I'm grateful for... and I feel twinges of regret and guilt for not being the person they could have stayed connected to. But I'm not unhappy with my vibrant, wriggling self, scooting forward, more aware of what I'm doing in my relationships, how we're making each other.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Stories to tell
Such a bad blogger I am, not shaping any of my busy little life into stories. Lots of activity, not a lot of movement.
Am in ROC for the week, pecking away at some work stuff (which just keeps MULTIPLYING) and trying to figure out what my pilot project for my dissertation is. In the middle of this,
I received an email from the woman-I-met-on-a-plane whose wedding I randomly went to in Santa Fe last summer. She spent a year in Afghanistan working on an alternative livelihood project, and just wrote a really riveting piece for the Washington Post about the futility of such development work.
Her email also said:
After the piece ran, I received nearly 200 responses from all over the world, many of which stunned me with their humanity and kindness. After all was said and done, these responses proved to be more moving and meaningful than anything I had written. I hope to find a way to share some of them at some point.
Very sobering stuff, and pokes even more sharply at my questions about how my work can be meaningful. Sometimes I really envy F the concreteness of his science :-).
Instead, I spend my time with distractions like scouring the internet for an extremely good coq au vin recipe. Apparently StraightCate can cook things like this.
Am in ROC for the week, pecking away at some work stuff (which just keeps MULTIPLYING) and trying to figure out what my pilot project for my dissertation is. In the middle of this,
I received an email from the woman-I-met-on-a-plane whose wedding I randomly went to in Santa Fe last summer. She spent a year in Afghanistan working on an alternative livelihood project, and just wrote a really riveting piece for the Washington Post about the futility of such development work.Her email also said:
After the piece ran, I received nearly 200 responses from all over the world, many of which stunned me with their humanity and kindness. After all was said and done, these responses proved to be more moving and meaningful than anything I had written. I hope to find a way to share some of them at some point.
Very sobering stuff, and pokes even more sharply at my questions about how my work can be meaningful. Sometimes I really envy F the concreteness of his science :-).
Instead, I spend my time with distractions like scouring the internet for an extremely good coq au vin recipe. Apparently StraightCate can cook things like this.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Hidden from view
My cousin sent me an email this morning:
"She posted one last entry about how well-laid she was, and then she was never heard from again!" [Your Mom doesn't check your blog, surely?]
Yes, too damned busy and nothing coherent to say. Working working, fretting about school and momentum, enjoying my life, drinking too much good wine, trying to put some shape to a distributed life.
It was a year ago this week I took possession of this flat. So much frenzy that was, so many pages now flickered through the year. It still doesn't exactly feel like "home," but it feels like *my* place. And a jump-off point to whatever comes next.
Feh, more work to do, more words words words later.
"She posted one last entry about how well-laid she was, and then she was never heard from again!" [Your Mom doesn't check your blog, surely?]
Yes, too damned busy and nothing coherent to say. Working working, fretting about school and momentum, enjoying my life, drinking too much good wine, trying to put some shape to a distributed life.
It was a year ago this week I took possession of this flat. So much frenzy that was, so many pages now flickered through the year. It still doesn't exactly feel like "home," but it feels like *my* place. And a jump-off point to whatever comes next.
Feh, more work to do, more words words words later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
