let's not let this be true

from this week's postsecrets

anxiety

i am well acquainted with stress. i don't know how, after (almost) four years of college, i could have avoided that. stress is a strange sensation. i feel it bodily--not just in the blocked up sensation in my brain, but also in how my limbs become restless and my breathing rate rises, and how i start to sweat. the thing about stress though, is that i know how to handle it. i've become quite adept at ignoring it. passing it over. hiding it behind other things. it lets me do that: it's sufficiently dull to shove under a to-do list somewhere, and know that it won't show its face again for a while. lately though, i've been experiencing a new feeling. something different than stress; something that i don't quite know how to handle. and i have decided that it is anxiety.

for me, anxiety is a horrible sensation. just like stress, i feel it physically, and it is much harder for me to ignore. it's a kind of pressure, like some enormous invisible hand was holding me tight, and then squeezing. it feels like drowning: it's hard to catch my breath, and i'm afraid to because when i exhale, the tears threaten to tumble out.

last week, i found myself clinging to the edge of the kitchen sink, fighting back tears that i had no real explanation for. sure, it was a horrifically busy day. sure, i had to drive to portland for a thesis interview immediately after attending five hours of class in a row. sure, i had a long list of reading assignments and a detailed outline of dates and times scheduling out how it was i would manage to eek out a thesis draft in a little over a week. but i've done this before. it wasn't like it was new, or that i had double booked myself, or hadn't yet found a car to get to that interview. it was going to be okay. but even though i knew that was true, it was all just too much.

i don't really know how to deal with this new feeling of anxiety. i can't hide from it, and when i try it just gets worse. but i also don't know where to begin. do i stop sleeping so i have time to finish everything i'm supposed to get done in a day? do i stop hanging out with friends in the evening so that i can complete job applications? do i eat whatever happens to be in the fridge instead of taking the time to slow down and make a meal that will actually feed me? none of these options are viable. at least not for me.
there are certain things that i refuse to sacrifice. sanity, for one. sleep, for another. time, for a third. without these things, nothing i do will make any sense, and i will have missed too many opportunities. that would only add guilt to the list. that's the last thing i need. after spring break and this draft, maybe i can figure out a few ways to take back control--something i was doing so well only a couple of months ago.

b

5 days of sun

if you haven't been around for the past week, you've been missing out. for nearly a week now we have been enjoying gorgeous, chilly, but sunshiney days that seem to have revived me from my tendency toward winter dullness. it's got me thinking about the things i want to do more of this spring.

i want to open my windows and doors more often.
i want to sit on the porch with a cup of french press and watch the morning come into itself.
i want to go for sunrise hikes.
i want to make time to write, instead of fitting it in between other things.
i want to take more pictures so i will have reminders of these days in the years to come.
i want to wear skirts.

february always has a "teaser:" a week or two of wonderful weather before march's gloom arrives. it's almost cruel how we get our hopes up, and then they are dashed so immediately. but i wouldn't have it any other way: every year, february provides a bright spot, reminds us of the glories of spring and summer, those things that seem so distant come january.

enjoy the sun.

b

of late

reading for fun.

"Today the distinction between draft and harness horses is arcane knowledge, and no image may come to mind for a blue roan or a claybank horse. The loss of such refinement in everyday conversation leaves me unsettled. People praise the Eskimo's ability to distinguish among forty types of snow but forget the skill of others who routinely differentiate between overo and tobiano pintos. Such distinctions are made for the same reason. You have to do it to be able to talk clearly about the world."

--Barry Lopez, in Crossing Open Ground

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thinking a lot.

it's nice to have the time to think, and not have it orbit around scheduling or homework or other tasks. instead, i am finding myself dwelling on things that seem to be more important. here are a few snippets of late

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skills and mastery.

lately i have been thinking a lot about the knowledge that i (we) lack, but that generations preceding ours just, well, had. for example: a hundred years ago, an individual probably knew the names of the plants they ate. and i mean varieties, not "corn" or "carrot." they probably knew who grew it too. they probably knew how many steps it was to their neighbor's front porch, and knew how long it would take to get to town and thus planned accordingly. women had (for the most part) intuitive knowledge of how to achieve basic household tasks like cooking or baking bread because they had been around it their whole lives. men had that same intuition about how to fix things, or how much hay they would need to haul to feel their animals for the winter. they knew that in february in oregon, there would be two weeks of nice weather when they could get ahead of the onslaught of spring work. they could tell the weather was changing by looking at the sky and noting the behavior of animals.

today, we have different sorts of knowledge. we know how to drive cars, microwave meals, and look things up on the internet. we know how to use ATM machines. we know how to text message. i know that because our knowledge is shaped differently doesn't mean that there isn't mastery present in our lives anymore... but i can't help but feel like all of these things we do, anyone can.

there seems to be so little variation in our knowledge and skills today. we all have these same things, and all learn how to do the same things. sure, someone might be really good at excel or at photoshop, but i feel like even the less technically savvy of us (me for example) could "get" that, given enough time. but there is something different about being able to cook a meal for others, and time it right so all of the dishes land on the table still warm. there is some sense of mastery about that--something more than following protocols or directions on a recipe card. there is feeling in that kind of knowledge, there is intuition; something extra that must be learned, must be earned. i suppose it was the same one hundred years ago: everyone knew how to watch for weather changes and tell when a loaf of bread was baked just to perfection. but i don't know. there is a difference between being "skilled" and "masterful." maybe the reason that distinction has faded today is because we move on so quickly. a new cell phone after a year. a new computer every two or three; software updates every month. can you ever master something like that? i want to master something--to be artful, not just proficient.

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precision and understanding.

the quote that opens this entry resonated with me. in particular, the idea of there being a special precision in knowledge that is important to maintain: an overo versus a tobiano, for example. or hard white wheat versus hard red. or marjoram versus thyme. it is not just a horse, or a flour, or a spice that is denoted by these words, but a whole world of distinctions: of things that make each unique, characteristics that the other cannot achieve. i think our ability to differentiate, to make these meaningful distinctions is greatly diminished today. take for example those commercials on t.v. that equate changing a light bulb to changing the world, or buying a new reusable shopping bag to responsibility. i'm sorry, but those are not the same thing.

when will we move beyond the "i changed this thing by replacing it with another, and therefore have done my part" mentality? someday we have to realize that a different item consumed is not the same thing as changing your consumption, and that changing a light bulb is not the same thing as not turning it on in the daytime when you don't need it anyway. a while ago i listened to a radio show on n.p.r. where the guest speaker was diagnosing what he saw as the real crisis in the climate change "crisis." he argued that the whole global warming hullabaloo has nothing to do with CO2 emissions or hybrid cars or cap and trade. if anything, all of that is distracting us from the real crisis. the real crisis, he argued, is a crisis of lifestyle: global warming isn't about cutting out the use of fossil fuels--it's about realizing that we live in a finite world and cannot live as if it were infinite. replacing petroleum with hydrogen or LNG or what have you is not going to solve this problem. only changing the way we live will. not living 50 miles from your place of work is one step; not participating in conspicuous consumption is another; replacing money spent on entertainment with time spent with loved ones is another; simplifying your lifestyle to live on a single income instead of two is yet another.

the problem with these changes is that they are hard. way harder than buying a different sort of light bulb or car. they require a more precise understanding of the way things are in our world, and they require that we differentiate between "action," and real, active change. as barry lopez wrote, "you have to do it to be able to talk clearly about the world." without talking clearly about the world, how can we ever do better by it?

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no real conclusion(s).

so i've been thinking a lot. who knows if it makes sense. but i do know that i want to differentiate. i want to be more discerning in how i speak, make decisions, and live my life. i want to be masterful, not just skilled. i want to make these important distinctions. i feel like they will help somehow. how that is, i don't quite know.

b

a poem a day...

... sounds ambitious. but i like the idea. what about a one sentence, one line poem? every single day day.

i am going to call it the "today beth..." series, and i may even dedicate a new notebook to this endeavor. i want to pay more attention to my days. i was telling erik just yesterday that i have a horrible memory. so often a friend will ask me, "what did you do today?" or "how was your weekend?" and i struggle to remember what i did or how i felt about it. it is sad to me that so much time passes unnoticed. maybe that feeling is particularly acute because i am so close to the end of a lot of things right now. maybe this can help.

today beth opens windows, lets in light.

b

a baker's dozen

as you may or may not know, i have a bit of a love affair with to-do lists. perhaps it is more of a love-hate affair. without them, i become a complete flake but with them i tend to be stressed. occasionally, however, they are all happiness.

i am endeavoring during this month to do an amazing amount of baking. i mean a stupendous amount. i mean a my-measuring-cups-will-never-be-clean-and-i-might-gain-a-few-pounds amount. mmm yum. here is my baker's dozen to-do list for the month:

1. raspberry ricotta muffins
2. quinoa muffins
3. sour cream orange biscuits
4. cheese biscuits
5. sourdough scones
6. sour cream scones
7. popovers
8. lemon blueberry bread
9. yogurt bread
10. mocha-oatmeal cupcakes
11. wheat berry bread
12. cottage cheese loaf
13. sourdough rye beer bread

additionally this january, i would like to become acquainted with the subtle magic of sourdoughs. these breads are ancient--employing the native yeasts of kitchens from around the world and across time. they also happen to be delicious: chewy and tangy.

something about sourdoughs is intriguing to me. not only do they free the baker from reliance on commercially available yeast, but they represent an inheritance. my mom had a sourdough starter her mom had given her for years, until it got contaminated somehow. it isn't uncommon for starters to be passed down for several generations--well cared for, their lifetime can long exceed our own. it's pretty cool.

here's to a month of baking adventures!

b

a reflection on fall semester, and, really, 2009

When you're 21 going on 60, you feel like an old geezer among your peers.


Lately I have been noticing that I seem to be a prematurely old person. Only a couple of years ago I was one of the impassioned people on campus--I was active, organizing, leading. I was out on the front lines, and likely would have been in the protest lines with a shiny placard above my head if I had continued on that track. But then life intervened. I got frustrated with working so hard for no real result. I burned out from trying to get other people excited, instead of enjoying myself and doing things I was interested in. Then I went far away from this place and learned a lot about life and priorities.

Recently I sat in on an interesting conversation with Michael Osmera, an adjunct professor in the Sociology and Anthropology department. In the course of his discussion with our Senior Proseminar class, he shared some of the wisdom he had acquired over a lifetime of trying and failing and caring... and he said something that caught my attention: "as you get older, you move from problem solving to coping" (emphasis mine). And I thought, "Huh. That's interesting."

Michael went on to explain that there is a recognizable cycle of experience when it comes to caring about things. It starts with passion and excitement. At that point, you are convinced that if you just throw all of your energy at something, that alone will create change. This is the starting point in the cycle, and, I think, is the stage that college students are most familiar with: it's exciting, it lets you think up catchy slogans and organize guest speakers and wear t-shirts that espouse your beliefs. It's fun, it's a party--it also has an end. That end is the wall that I hit at the end of sophomore year: the let down. Suddenly you realize that all the energy you spent really didn't do much. You begin to feel like nothing will ever change--after all, your passion meant nothing to the world. This second stage quickly degenerates into the third, which is when you give up on action. Your frustration and feeling of impotence leads you to apathy, and you withdraw from all those associations that once made you so excited. For once, you think to yourself, I just want to come home at night. Not go to another meeting or organize another function that no one will come to. I just want to sleep enough and try to be happy.

This third phase is a hard one to face if you have ever cared about anything in your life. You feel lazy and selfish, and wonder what happened to your former self: the one who cared, and who wanted to talk about these issues, who was so motivated and ambitious. When things come up in conversation, you are the one changing the subject, avoiding the arguments. Your friend groups shift. You start to read and think more, talk less. It's a disorienting time. And then you find stage four: coming to terms with it.

Stage four, Michael explained to us, is where real change starts. It is where you start to understand the nuances of issues, the complications. You get educated. You re-evaluate your past convictions in light of that knowledge. And you start to integrate that knowledge into the way you live: maybe buying fair trade every time you purchase coffee, instead of only sometimes, or joining a CSA instead of buying bell peppers from the supermarket (grown in Mexico), in December.

The coping phase doesn't usually happen for a long while. We humans seem to be willing to bang our heads against the wall for a long time before realizing that all we're getting out of it is a bloody bruise. And when you hit that phase, you feel suddenly old. You find yourself scolding your peers for being excited about things, even though that isn't really what you mean. You mean to tell them that their voices will be better heard if they are educated, and if their actions speak just as loudly or more so. But, when you encourage them to read more, their response is often "but what good will that do?"

Plenty, is the answer to that question. There's less glory in it. You don't get to be known on campus as "that girl who is so passionate" about a, b, or c. You are overlooked, drowned out by other, louder voices; the same people you used to work side by side with, ignore you. When you try to speak, you are accused of being harsh or mean, of "forgetting what it is like." Does this phrase ring a bell? You probably accused your parents of the same thing at some point, didn't you? When did you become the parent in this exchange? It sucks a little, doesn't it? Being prematurely old isn't easy when you're only 21. In the face of these accusations, I returned to my little hole, made some tea, and went back to reading. If nothing else, being educated about what I was saying mattered to me.

And then I noticed something: people started asking me questions. Friends became curious about all of that reading, wondering what it was that was so fascinating. They wondered why I was so passionate when they asked me what I thought, but no longer volunteered it. Professors started to come to me with questions, because they knew that I had read more on a given topic than they had. A friend told me jokingly that, "you're the most legit person I've met." And then I started to realize that I did have a voice after all. It was quieter than before. It wasn't as catchy or appealing: it rambled a little bit, grasping for the right words. It was more silent than anything else--letting the way I was living speak more than what I said did. Letting the words I did speak stand alone, not have to compete. Maybe I'm starting to come to terms with being 21 going on 60. It's a pretty good place to be, really, even if it's not as popular.


what a year 2009 has been...

b