today on my way to work, i said to a friend, i really don't have time to work if i want to do all the things i love. for some reason, that was funny to the other person, though i meant it with sincerity and earnestness.
i think most of the time, i hear the reverse, there's no time for the things i love to do. and i've certainly misspoken and said that myself on occasion. but i am here today to say, emphatically, my heart aligns with the former declaration, rather than the latter.
one of my best friends and i have discussed this notion that 'working', as in having a job, is a criteria that she evaluates people on. the conversation started after she met someone who taken an early retirement and it made my friend suspicious. in contrast, i found it fascinating and admirable. when i said to her, if i didn't have to, i wouldn't work either; she was appalled. and i laughed.
there are so many things i love to do.. and i give the best and bulk of my day to my job. i find it ludicrous and incredibly disappointing that a certain presidential candidate publicly stated that americans need to work more hours.. history and an astute study of the rest of the developed nations would prove quite the opposite.
but i digress... my point was simply this: while i love my job (most days), i love many more things, much more. one day, my time allocation will reflect that. i am certain. meanwhile, i will dedicate quality time in the place of quantity time to the things that make me happiest.
not long ago i wrote here wishing i operated this blog anonymously. that i didn't have to be quite so vulnerable or specifically that my vulnerability didn't have to reach as far as my friends and family. (hence not very vulnerable at all. that point was lost on me.) but the reality is that my wish for anonymity was sort of tongue-in-cheek because if it weren't for my own sharing of my writings, via facebook or otherwise, nobody would ever know.
this week as i've written a few times and shared none of them with my social networks, i keep thinking of the age old philosophical question:
If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
i once was in a forest and heard a tree fall. it was terrifying. every time that question runs through my head, i remember the crack and crash as if it just happened. my immediate response when posed that question is 'of course.' but then when i really started to consider it (and research it, to be totally honest...because that's what i do) i've learned that's not the 'correct' answer.
according the 1883 magazine, The Chautauquan, and later supported by Scientific American, sound is technically vibration of air and only recognized as sound by our ears.. hence, no ears, no sound. i attest that's a semantic conclusion and i would make a case that if sound is vibration and vibration still occurs, the sound is there regardless of whether it's heard. but so be it. i won't be the one to solve that riddle. not today at least.
but when it comes to my writing.. i am happy to report that whether i'm read or not read, whether i'm known or anonymous, the words are still here; preserved, so to speak, in pixelated cyber-ink. and perhaps without the bugler's proclamation of a new posting, those who do find their way here will know the words they stumbled upon were meant for them.
d: stumblings-upon
b: writing for me instead of you
g: synchronistic logistics
maybe it's just me, but when i see the word Greetings! i expect something good to follow. perhaps a holiday message or an invitation or a notice that i've won an unexpected jackpot. i can think of a few other appropriate situations, but even when i stretch and reach for the third tier of most-likely-memos-to-follow, jury summons doesn't make the list.
sigh
i am tortured by this single piece of paper. it has evoked an emotional response that doesn't normally follow a cheerful greeting.
i have no qualms at all about my civic duty in principle and in fact, being a mystery-loving, puzzle-solving, obsessive-researcher i've always been innately curious about what transpires behind a jury's guarded door. so why, you may wonder, was i overcome with apprehension and dread when luke handed me the Greetings! last night...
almost two years ago exactly i received another jury summons. it was from fulton county, rather than dekalb, and decidedly less enthusiastic in the conveyance of my obligation. i made up for their lack of cheer with my excited anticipation.
it was early summer after todd's freshman year and he accompanied me to court, to observe our justice system in action. [note: i'm using the word 'action' loosely, as the jury selection process is about as action-packed as one of those algae eating snails on the side of an aquarium.]
i served on a criminal jury for a week that june, hearing a case against a young man charged with 11 felony counts, including murder, aggravated assault (ran over a person with a car, twice) and kidnapping. we sat through hours of expert witness testimony on blood spatter, saw an incarcerated witness flip sides mid-testimony, heard from prostitutes and drug dealers, and studied maps of streets and businesses that i'd driven by dozens of times... in short, it was everything my patricia cornwell and john grisham filled head could have imagined for a riveting juror experience.
except for one thing.. in the end, i had three pages of questions. unanswered questions. and the answers simply didn't exist in the cases we were presented. it also turned out that the attorneys didn't have scripts. they flubbed their lines and were at times inarticulate or ineffective in making their points clear. after all, a jury 'of your peers' may need it spelled out quite simply...(well, that's another story altogether.)
but i think it can be summed up in one tragic revelation: there are no tidy bows in real life criminal court. verdicts are messy. there are loose ends. there are unanswered questions. there is evidence untested or even uncollected. and every person in the courtroom, aside from the defendant and the jurors, are quite simply at work. and just like me, they have good days and bad days, they forget things and screw up. they are distracted by their personal lives at times and they are pushed and pulled by their bosses at others. just like at my office, there's a range of acceptable performance and people fall at both ends of the spectrum.
and the jury room is no better. there is no magic behind the heavy door. there are just people, also distracted by their kids and jobs and grocery list and that defense attorney looks like this guy i know and that prosecutor was too loud and the forensic analyst was boring me to tears so i drew a grid on my notepad. and..and...
i was wrecked by my jury experience.
i couldn't sleep.
i poured over my notes, well after the trial ended.
i saw the car from the crime everywhere (really, they were everywhere suddenly).
i drove the streets from the maps and then i avoided them too.
i was wracked with guilt for not standing my ground or being more clear.
it was like a song stuck in my head, but it felt more like morning sickness. continual nausea on the verge of much worse.
a week later, i called the judge's office and left a message. he called me back the same day. reassured me. gave me more background and context on the case. thanked me for my service and told me to put it behind me.
and i did, though i still have all my notes from the trial in my work bag. i see them daily and am momentarily reminded of our individual human-ness. inherently imperfect. and in those imperfect, human hands, we hold each other: lives and hearts.
so, back to the issue at hand.. my Greetings! from dekalb county courthouse. i called and rescheduled, first thing, as i have travel already booked for the following several days. the court clerk i spoke to advised me on tips to get out of serving altogether, but i simply thanked her and said i'd just like to reschedule instead.
i have a pit in my stomach about it. i am praying for a civil case or a corporate litigation or simply a day wasted in the jury pool holding room. but no matter, i'll be there, with much less curiosity and much lower expectations. and should i wind up on a jury that is sent to deliberation without a final chapter in the book, with great heaviness i will take what pieces i'm given and do my best.
i grew up at the beach.. playing in tidal pools and thrilled
with the discovery of a sandbar underfoot. but where i found my greatest
delight, in these jessica-sized oceans, i also had the saddest moments.
sometimes i found fish trapped in there... as a child, i imagined that they were relieved
to be protected from the predators and dangers of the tremendous sea, but soon it was
apparent to me (and them) that these perceived refuges were instead likely to
be their demise.
the fish trapped in these pools would sometimes fling
themselves up on the sand trying to get back to the ocean. there, they
would flail about, hoping to be overtaken by the fury and power of a wave that
would sweep them ironically to safety. but, generally, that didn't work.
they would thrash about on the sand and eventually fall back into the tidal
pool. their suffocation temporarily stayed.
as the tide recedes, tidal pools both warm and shrink.
these fish realize (or so i imagined) their slice of peaceful respite was not
all they hoped. the need for a larger body of water, the security and
stability of open sea, the refreshing temperature brought by ever flowing
currents - these once feared elements were desperately needed by the fish, in
order to merely survive.
over and over the fish fling themselves toward the sound of
the surf in hopes that this time the foamy waves would be within reach.
but time and again, the fish fall exhausted back into the once
refreshing, then tepid, and now dangerously toxic tidal puddle. the oxygen
depleted from the still water, the temperature hot to the touch, a stench would
rise off these pools as all life died there.
there's a place in my world too, in which i've dreamed of sanctuary and escape. a place i imagined myself enveloped in a depth unlike most others and seemingly idyllic. a place i could be submerged without drowning and yet held buoyant by the life swirling around me.
much like a tidal pool it has dwindled to a salty, scalding cesspool and i find myself flopping about on the sand, praying for a wave. but instead drowning on dry land.
i've always been fascinated by houses of cards, the real ones built with playing cards i mean; not the political television drama (though i do love that show). it boggles my mind how people can build extraordinary towers and elaborate structures simply out of cards. between my short patience and shaky hands, my attempt at a house of cards resembles a failed lean-to more than anything remotely house-like.
but there's a guy, bryan berg, who has figured it out. he's mastered the delicate half art/half science pastime and has held the guinness world record for the tallest freestanding house of cards since 1992. in fact the guinness folks invented a new record category for him to be honored in, in 2004. lest you think this guy is just some punk with a steady hand, let me correct that misconception. berg holds a professional degree in architecture and a design achievement award from iowa state university and a masters in design studies from harvard. berg travels the world and builds elaborate card house displays on commission. think: art installation.
in my wiki research i read that the general structural guidelines dictate a proper house of cards utilizes only friction and balance to remain upright. these structures are delicate! a strong breeze or misplaced card and they topple.
hmm. that sounds familiar. my emotional infrastructure somewhat resembles a house of cards these days. delicate. subject to sudden climate changes that result in certain disaster. sometimes too much friction and not enough balance. at other times, perfect balance toppled by unexpected brushes. yes, an emotional house of cards indeed.
(i do love a metaphor, after all.)
but then i read this:
Bryan Berg claims..that the more cards placed on a tower the stronger it becomes, because the weight of the cards pushing down on the base (increasing friction) allows occasional cards to stumble without the entire structure collapsing. He also claims that proper stacking technique allows cards to function as shear walls, giving considerable stability to the structure.
and strangely enough, that makes sense to me. i see that. a layer of laughter, levity and love can remedy many a shaky card. with enough carefully placed support, even the once weak cards can add stability to a structure.
while i was pondering this topic on my evening commute, pre-writing the blog in my mind, as i often do; a card was placed on my tower. a surprise placement, quite out of the blue; it could very well have toppled the damn thing right over.
but it didn't. as luck would have it, it was ever so carefully placed, building a shear wall i didn't expect.
d: patience with my construction
b: metaphor win
g: shear walls
i feel much like i did three and a half years ago when i stopped writing. i tried to explain it when i came back this time - that it was too hard to write when things weren't sugar sweet. but that's not wholly true. it's easy to write - in fact it's the most natural thing in the world for me.. writing when i'm in pain or struggling or lonely or confused or a myriad of other emotions. but what isn't natural for me is holding back.
i've often wished that i did this blog anonymously. that i hadn't shared it with my social networks. that i'd used aliases for the people in my life. for then i would never run into the brick wall that is self-censorship.
self-censorship. what a strange oxymoron that is, a cruel twist on self-expression: self-suppression.
censor [sen ser] noun
1. an official who examines books, plays, news reports, etc for the purpose of suppressing parts deemed objectionable on moral or other grounds
2. any person who supervises the manners or morality of others
3. an adverse critic; faultfinder
... verb
6. to examine and act upon as a censor
7. to delete (a word or passage of text) in one's capacity as a censor
when i act as a censor (def 1) on my writing and then censor (def 7) my words here it must be the "other grounds" on which i am basing my decision. i think what i may have implied in my earlier blogs is that it was self-criticism or judgement (def 3) that has held me back.. but that's not exactly true in this context. it's not faultfinding on my part. it's not a critic within me.
it's the critics outside me. those who are quick to discern where another has made a wrong turn. those who always can see the obvious solution. those who can read a person's mind and heart and assess their shortfalls from a small excerpt of their life.
those who define my grey truths on their black and white scale.
but why do they matter? it must be fear. of the judgments, of the questions, of the shrewd deductions.
and so i write in metaphor and concepts. i write in abstract innuendo and private language few can decode. i write myself into a corner and then cry when i'm all alone.
i don't know how not to. the roadblock of exposure and vulnerability is still too great for me to break through. and so i will write of it, i will expose myself afraid of exposure and maybe in time the two will be one.
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
-lyric from Anthem by Leonard Cohen
for what it's worth...i mean no offense to you; for my fear is generalized to all who look in. there's no specificity in my barrier, and perhaps no grounds.
d: the light of exposure
b: i made a crack
g: lack of grounds
it's some sort of cosmic, karmic joke that both of my boys have taken up extracurricular activities that require them to arrive at school before the sun is up on saturday mornings; seeing as i'm such a morning person. but this week is different.
today todd left for virginia, to a national debate tournament, at 6:30 am. incidentally, that's the same time my first alarm goes off on weekdays. the first alarm being the one that i ignore and sleep through. the first alarm being the one that cues mega to begin my real waking process, "wake up, i'm hungry!!" so ordinarily i would fall back into bed after dropping him off and try to catch a couple more moments of dreamful sleep.
but not today, friday. i left him at school, went to the grocery store, got home and readied myself for work, and there was a bounce in my step. friday has long been my favorite day of the week..not because it's the end of the week, but rather because it's the beginning of the weekend. full of promise and potential. full of play and possibility.
for the past two years my december fridays have been polished off with an early quitting time at work. we close at 2 for this month of fridays in order that we can plough the mall, prepare for the holiday, and perhaps elude gridlock.
that's already pretty perfect; but today, my friday precedes a saturday of peaceful, alarm-free, slumber. the plan is poised: boys out of town, pork dinner for mega, pillows prepped.
d: plentiful dreams
b: planning for pleasure
g: private peace
