Nothing but time

I am acutely aware of time at the moment.

The Cuban, ever my greatest cheerleader and most attentive sounding board, has reassured me again and again that I remain a spring chicken. As I enter my 50th (HOLY SHIT) year, I am reminded that we have but one life and a limited amount of time during which to live it.

I want for nothing this year, except more time. More time to spend with those whom I love. More time to explore areas near and far, known and unfamiliar alike. More time to read and understand more about this world in which I live. More time to stop and smell the roses and daisies and lilacs and all the other flowers. More time to face the judgement of my darling cat. More time to run and see just how far I can push myself physically. More time work with talented students and young researchers. Time. Just time. I want more of it.

It amazes me how crazy fast the years pass now. In the blink of an eye, we’ve journeyed around the sun yet again. To me, the foolishness of youth believes in the notion that each of us has all the time in the world and and endless supplies of tomorrows. Or maybe that is the consummate procrastinator who sits upon my shoulder whispering, ‘later’ and ‘tomorrow’ and ‘mañana’ again and again and again. Tomorrow is guaranteed to no one; yet, knowing this and living its reality are two entirely different things.

As I reflect upon the passage of time I want more of it. But, I also realise that I realise just how good I have it in this specific moment. I may work too much, and spend entirely too much time obsessing over the idiocy of others (as well as my own). But, this little life I’ve enjoyed over the past 49 years has been a fantastic ride so far. And, welcome whatever comes next and for however long I have to enjoy it.

And, as The Cuban says, ‘I got your spring chicken right here!’

 

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The Cuban’s traditional birthday chicken. Just for me.

Just stop

I am so terribly weary from being a woman at the moment.

Last summer, a friend visiting Helsinki brought along pictures from the Women’s Rights March in DC from 1992, I believe. One of the signs from that day that my friends and I carried read, ‘US out of my uterus’. And, here we are

It’s not just the laws, governing and policing of lady bits going on. Or the pain and uncertainty that women living in those specific parts of the US or world will or currently feel given the limited options available to them. Or even the desperate measures they’re likely to resort to given their realities.

It’s primarily the vitriol and misogynistic context and tone to comment after comment after comment from men directed at women. To me, to women I know and to women I’ll likely never meet. It’s been seemingly constant since the fiasco and farce that was the confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh.

And, frankly, I’m just tired of it all. Increasingly, I find that I genuinely do not like many, many, many men. [Thankfully, I married a feminist who gets this and shares my outrage, and call many other woke men friends. I do not dislike, y’all, if that wasn’t obvious already.]

Most of this rant will seem likely to the men feeling secure in their positions and who truly welcome equality with their uterus-possessing friends. We thank, y’all. Seriously. So, help us get this message out, eh?

If you claim to be an ally or want to know how to be one, here’s an idea: Just stop, listen / read our words, try to understand our despair and anger, and ask instead how you can help support the women in your life rather than tell them what they should feel or how they should act. [Mansplaining 101 from a woman’s perspective.]

And, if you feel it’s necessary to make snarky comments to someone you don’t know because of the safety of your keyboard, really? [Mansplaining 101 from a man’s perspective, because this is 2019 and women are still not taken seriously. And, hence, this post and my rage.]

Unless you have lived your entire life since puberty dealing with period shame,

Unless you have held your breath waiting for your period to come because various methods fail on occasion,

Unless you have watched as your idea was shot down or dismissed by someone in authority only to hear a man in the room say literally the same exact thing and be congratulated for their brilliance, 

Unless you have been told stop beingso emotional‘ or ‘overly hormonal’ when you disagree with a man, 

Unless you’ve been told on numerous occasions that you’re being a bitch so it must just be ‘that time of the month‘ [NB: this link is a fucking gem of an example of everything which induces rage in me at the moment in that sort of cumulative sort of way from a lifetime of it],

Unless you have had to wrestle and wiggle your way out of the clutches of *that* dude,

Unless you’ve been genuinely terrified that you won’t be able to wrestle and wiggle away *this* time,

Unless you’ve had to justify what you were wearing, or how flirty you were or weren’t or that no really does means no,

Just stop.

Stop telling me what I should say, what I should do, what I should feel or any other thing I do with my body or my mind. This is my body. This is my mind. And, these are my emotions.

And, I own them. All.

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Image credit: Anne Lesniak.

Further reading:

Three books that I think every single person on the planet should read right now:

2018

I will not miss this year. At. All.

It’s proved challenging. It’s tested my limits. And, it’s frayed my nerves. It’s brought successes and bitter disappointments, sometimes simultaneously. It’s brought the pain of loss and grief. And it’s been emotionally and physically exhausting.

But, this year also brought love. Kindness. Patience. Support. And laughter, so much laughter, at times through tears.

This year, 2018, is once again not defined by things, but by the people in my life. I am enormously grateful, humbled and honoured to have so, so many amazing people in my life.

Naturally, there is that one person who stands out, namely, that constant known to me as ‘Sweetie’ or “Twewtie’, and to many as The Cuban. As we move into our 14th (holy shit, time flies!) year together, I am still amazed by how much more meaningful each day is through the simple act of sharing time and space with this most incredible human. As much as I love many of you, I am not afraid nor ashamed to say there is no one on this planet I’d rather spend time with.

But so many others in our life, those both near and far, those at once virtually and physically near and dear, have provided both strength and hope, kindness and solidarity, silliness and seriousness when we most needed and least expected it. And we are grateful beyond measure. You’ve cheered our successes, shared our outrage at injustices and aimed to make this world just a little bit better, and we love you for it.

As the clock ticks towards another day and another year, we thank you for sharing your lives with us in 2018. And we wish you boundless happiness and joy, love and laughter, and endless hope and prosperity in whatever way you measure it in the coming year. May 2019 exceed your expectations and dreams. And may we cross one another’s paths as often as possible in the near future.

Happy New Year!

On ‘How to Write a Lot’

How to Write a Lot: A Practical Guide to Productive Academic WritingHow to Write a Lot: A Practical Guide to Productive Academic Writing by Paul J. Silvia

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A colleague / friend with whom I’ve been working the last year recently mentioned this little gem of a book to me as we discussed some rather disappointing peer reviews she’d received.

Academic writing is hard work, often leaving writers / authors rather dispirited and unmotivated. Finding motivation to write at all remains a constant battle for many of us. And, time and again, I find myself saying to students, colleagues and myself, ‘just schedule time to write and only write if you want to accomplish anything’.

More than anything, that message rings out loud and clear throughout this precious little bit of encouragement by Paul Silvia.

I genuinely love this book. Its tone. Its thinness. Its simplicity. Its language. And, its messages, both primary and supporting. Whether student or mentor, writing an article or book manuscript or proposal, whether just beginning or seeking to finish items on your to-do list, this book offers something for everyone.

In the week since it arrived, I’ve gone from planning to read a chapter at a time to plowing through it as if it is the most exciting suspense novel ever. It’s just that engaging. And, I will be recommending, if not demanding, that all of my students give it a read regardless of where they live within the graduate school landscape.

Thank you, Paul Silvia. I’ll be revisiting my own writing schedule this weekend. And, recommitting to cleaning my desk procrastinating less.

View all my reviews

Changes

Same desk, different feel.

On the last slide for my last class meeting in all of my classes, I include a picture of my desk. It’s messy. It’s filled with crap related to teaching and my work at the university and beyond. It’s also filled with non-work stuff, which I use to take various type of mental health breaks.

Fundamentally, it’s a reflection of me, with bits of nonsense peppered across the surface featuring the necessary and obligatory giant cup of half-drunk coffee and a water bottle or three.

My new workspace took so much less time to set up and feel ‘right’ than any other workspace I’ve previously created. Perhaps because I’d been thinking about it for a while. Perhaps because my system now works precisely as I want it to. But, this new space feels fantastic already and feels as though, once I sort the remainder of our packed life throughout the flat and truly and completely nest, this workspace will prove productive.

Yesterday, one of my classes met for the last time. It’s been a challenging few first two months of classes this autumn given our kitty breast cancer ordeal and the move. But, this class has been patient and attentive and worked incredibly hard, as well extended truly unexpected and most welcome kindness each week. I’ve entered class on some Monday evenings feeling rather homicidal. I’ve never left it feeling that way. Anyway, I needed a new pic for my last slide. Given that I’d only just finished setting up my desk about four hours before the class met, it’s rather miraculous I managed to get more than the absolute minimum sorted.

The image with the window to the left of my desk is my new space and I genuinely love it. The image on the right is my old workspace. As much as I loved it, I confess: I do not miss it, not even a little bit.

I still have some bits to sort out, naturally. But, I love this space. From where things are on my desktop to my desk’s contents to the views to the left (out the window) and right (to the living room).

Even better, on the other side of my screens, The Cuban sits at his own workspace.

Evidently, change is good.

Change is good, right?

I do not deal with change well. Not at all well.

Much like my cat, I am a creature of habit. And, habits create order and help alleviate the every-day anxiety that plagues me and has left me seemingly paralysed at times throughout my life. I like order. I like things to have their own specific place. And, I like knowing what and where stuff is and where that stuff will be tomorrow.

Moving, as much as it can be welcome, is perhaps the worst sort of change for me. Rather funny, given that at times during my life I moved what seemed like every other month.

After living in one address and one space for 11 years — longer than I’ve lived anywhere in my life — moving now has completely thrown me into the worst sort of chaos and worst sort of anxiety. I’m managing; but, just barely. But, sorting through a life and a fully established home is hard.

Today, as I took a break from work to sort through a desk drawer and sift through debris of various sorts, I found a few things amongst the clutter that made me smile. Little reminders of a life lived in a home we love. And, reminders that regardless of our physical address, at the end of the day this is just a physical space and does not necessarily define ‘home’ for me.

Since The Cuban entered my life, we have left one another little notes. On (or in) the fridge. On one another’s desks. In notebooks and books. Next to one another’s alarms or pillows. We have notebooks of them in various places.

Notes. Just little notes, some as reminders to do something. Most as reminders that more than any other possession in our closets, desks and dressers, the most important item either of us has will always be one another.

In the bottom of a drawer underneath discarded phone and headphone boxes and invoices from ISPs we no longer rely upon, these notes emerged. These notes which I kept. These notes which still make me smile. These notes which remind me to ignore the noise and focus on the constant source of strength and goodness we provide one another.

A roof. Walls. Doors. Those make up a dwelling. But, my home is with The Cuban. The physical dwelling and walls may change, and our notes to one another may carry altogether different messages of things to do and little reminders. But, they’ll always be reminders of one constant thing: we built this home together. And, we’ll get through this and survive. Together. Change is a good, and reminds of us what remains constant.

Past notes of note