Day 57

Letting go is a hard thing to do. It is especially hard to let go of a dream. I generally hold onto my dreams with my whole being, as if my life depends on not letting go. I suppose it does. My ego gets all caught up in the idea of accomplishing what I dream of. But dreams do die and there is a time for letting go.

I dreamed of being a college professor. It was a dream that grew out of a love of books and ideas and heady dialogue and old stone buildings and sleepy college towns. It was a dream that grew out of my desire to inspire and facilitate transformative change. It was a dream that was tied to my longing for security in the form of tenure and a dusty book-filled office. It was a dream that was nourished by confidence in my ability to connect with students and provoke new thought. I play this dream in my mind like a treasured home movie that I have seen a million times. It still moves me to tears.

I have come to realize that I will likely never be cast as the lead in this movie I've been directing. My dream can never be a reality, in part because the Ivy Tower I imagined doesn't really exist. Perhaps it never did. Being a college professor is mostly about the politics of committees, survival publishing and the reproduction of standard paradigms. There is little room for meaningful interaction between students and teachers, let alone critical thinking and innovation. I am simple unwilling and unable to sacrifice my dream for the facade that higher education has become.

It is time to lay this dream to rest. It has been on life support for years now. Every so often there is a small flicker of life: I really connect with a student or meet a professor who appears to be living my dream. I want to revive the dream and keep it alive. I know that I have to stop fooling myself. It is time to let go.

I would like to find a way to let this dream die gracefully. No clinging. No anger. No bitterness. Just acceptance. I know that there is no room for new dreams until I have put this one to rest.

Day 56

I went to a conference yesterday for a few hours. It started on Thursday and ended today but I find that I generally can't tolerate these kinds of events for that long. Don't get me wrong, there were a lot of interesting people there and the dialogue was engaging. What I find intolerable is the role playing, the performances that get in the way of authentic connection.

I found myself thinking about Shakespeare's famous quote: All the world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players. That guy had a way with words.

The conference was a stage, an opportunity for those in attendance to play the role of "academic." This kind of performance keeps us from experiencing each moment and expressing ourselves in response to each moment.

Like most people I have spent most of my life playing roles: daughter, wife, mother, employee, student. These roles are not me. In order to experience my true self and live an authentic life I have to be willing to abandon these roles. I have to be willing to put down the scripts and abandon the stage. I have to be willing to face others not as players but as thinking, feeling human beings.

Then again, maybe Shakespeare had it all wrong...

Day 55

Nothing pisses me off more than broken promises. It is hard for me to maintain relationships with people who do not honor their commitments. I am a harsh judge when it comes to integrity and honesty.



So, why do I keep breaking promises to myself?



I have recommitted myself to eating better and losing weight at least a hundred times over the last few years. I am really disgusted with my lack of integrity and honesty. I would like to break up with myself. Unfortunately I am stuck with my betrayer.



Lately, I have started to ask some really hard questions:



Do I really want to lose weight?

What is standing in the way?

Can I forgive myself and accept myself as I am?

Why do I insist on continuing this cycle of self-abuse?

How can I maintain my integrity in spite of my weight?



Mostly, I would like to make peace with myself. Maybe that means making peace with being fat.

Day 54

I find myself in conflict with my adviser over my dissertation. She thinks that certain changes need to be made. I don't deny that there is room for improvement but I disagree with her recommendations. What now?

I am a trained mediator and I am trying to wear my mediator hat in this situation. Of course, it is always easier to mediate other people's conflicts. I recognize that I am by no means neutral and impartial. Still there are lessons from mediation that can be applied here.

Here's the plan:

1. Get clarification. I need to make sure that I understand what she is asking me to do and why she is asking me to do it.

2. I need to clearly articulate my own needs.

3. I need to look for common ground.

4. I need to find win-win solutions to our disagreements. The goal is to create an agreement that meets my needs as well as hers, an agreement we both feel good about.

One important lesson I've learned through mediation is that people often have a need to "save face." We each have a certain image of ourselves that needs to be protected. It's pure ego stuff. However, if, as a mediator, I fail to provide the opportunity for individuals to preserve this image, the mediation will often fail.

I have all this in mind as I prepare to meet with my adviser tomorrow. Funny, my dissertation somehow seems secondary. The really important lessons always seem to be about the relationships.

Day 53

I love Google. Today I actually looked up the phrase "bend over and take it." Fourteen million hits and it's in the urban dictionary - amazing. I looked it up because I got advice from a couple of people today that seemed to suggest that I have no other choice.

It has been suggested that a PhD program is a "hazing process." I have spent 4 1/2 years working on a degree that appears to have little value in terms of social status and even less monetary value, not to mention the 1000's of dollars in tuition and lost wages. I have been working on my dissertation for almost two years. But now the games really begin. If I understand the process correctly, my committee is charged with presenting a series of hoops that I must jump through before I can grab the brass ring. Sorry for the mixed metaphor but I'm not sure if it is a merry-go-round or a circus.

Anyway, I have been advised to bend over and, well you know. I am convinced that there has to be another way. What if I shared with my advisers how powerless I am feeling in this process? What if I told them that in many ways this piece of writing is my baby and asked them to be gentle? What if I asked them what they really need from me and suggested that we dispense with the game playing? What if I was honest and told them that I really don't need anything else from them - that it is time to give me the damn degree and let me go? What if I refused to participate in the hazing process?

This might just prove to be a real education...

Day 52

Bill has a bumper sticker that reads: Don't believe everything you think. Good advice. I would add a caveat: Be especially cautious of thoughts that wake you up at 3:00 a.m. Thoughts that occur when we are tired, hungry, angry or depressed are especially suspect. So why is that these thoughts sound so authoritative and sure?

The particular stream of thought that woke me this morning at 3:00 sounded something like this: That dissertation you've been working on is pure nonsense. The last two years have been a total mind fuck. You will probably be laughed out of the conference you are scheduled to present at later in the week, that is if you can manage to get it together to present. LOSER!

I know, the gremlins in my head are brutal. I have been struggling all day to recover from this self-inflicted mental beating. Needless to say, I didn't get much work done on that presentation that I am scheduled to make on Friday.

I have one more day left to get this presentation together. I have often found at times like this, when I get myself backed in a corner, that the best strategy is to give up, surrender, quit trying. Sometimes just sitting with the frustration and fear gives it room to rise and dissipate, like smoke that has clouded my vision. Sitting helps me prepare myself for beginning again. Isn't that what life is all about?

Day 51

The ego is like a brick wall that stands between us and other people. It is made of "I am" blocks:

I am smart
I am funny
I am fat/thin/tall/short
I am pretty/ugly
I am a good writer
I am a terrible skier

It is easy to see how the wall can easily get too high to peer over. Authentic connection is impossible for people who are standing on either side of a brick wall, let alone two brick walls.

Some relationships exist to serve as mortar for the "I am" bricks that make up our ego. I associate with certain people because they remind me that I am funny, smart, pretty, etc. They confirm my perception of self. In turn, I do the same for them. That is the social contract. But I have to ask: Does it help me live more authentically in the moment? Does it nourish my soul?

It is possible to chip away at the mortar and poke holes in the brick walls of our egos. I have seen it done. It's scary. What if the whole wall comes tumbling down? Who will I be then?

Day 50

I went to a meeting yesterday of a group of people who share an expressed interest in "saving the world." There was laughter and passionate dialogue. I left the meeting feeling energized. On the way home I stopped at a store. The young man who took my money said that I have "an enchanting smile." I am a woman who is not accustomed to compliments from strange men so I laughed like an embarrassed school girl. But I knew that he was right. I had a certain glow, different from the every day me.

That's why I continue to get together with this particular group of people. The engagement makes me feel more alive. And yet, I am always quite self-conscious at these meetings. I am trying to move from self-conscious to self-aware. It seems to me that the later implies a certain nonjudgmental detachment. That is what I am aiming for.

In these meetings there is a lot of talk about travel. Most of the members of this group have traveled extensively and are committed to social justice work in the far corners of the globe. I have never traveled outside of the United States. Whenever, the conversation turns to travel I find myself feeling less-than. Suddenly I am inferior. I feel like Clarissa Starling with her "good bag" and her "cheap shoes." I am being called out as the impostor I am. They will all know that I am just a poor little girl from the wrong side...

I begin to build my defense. Who do they think they are? They're all a bunch of hypocrites who claim a commitment to social justice but think nothing of their ever expanding carbon footprints. Don't they know that air travel is a nasty, dirty , unsustainable habit? As a homebody I have claimed the truly superior position.

These are the thoughts that hook me at moments when I am in the company of people I generally respect and admire. I am learning to let these thoughts filter through. I am learning to have compassion for myself and the pain that leads me to turn friends into enemies. I am learning to see the good in people who may not share all of my values or know my experiences.

I am learning by muddling through.

Day 49

I think that if there is one thing that I can do that, more than any other thing, will help me walk a path of peace, it is to cultivate present moment awareness. It is simple: be here now. And it is the hardest thing I have ever tried to do.

Remember learning to tell time? I was so excited to finally understand what those hands meant as the moved around the face of the clock. Time is such an important concept in our culture. I sometimes think about what it would be like to have never learned about the concept of time.

A few years ago someone shared an important memory with me. He began by saying "It happened in the time before I could tell time." I thought that these words were beautiful and I keep reflecting on them. Yesterday I wrote a little verse that was inspired by his words.

Before time began.
Hands on faces meant nothing.
Memories stand still.

Day 48

I caught myself doing it again yesterday. My little inner judge popped up and starting issuing rulings from the bench. "She is such a bitch." "He is so selfish." "What a whiner." And my favorite: "He is so judgemental." Don't you just love the irony?

A few years ago I started doing something that turned my judgements around. Whenever I issue a judgement I tack on the words "just like me." If my inner judge says, "She is such a bitch," I finish the statement with "just like me." The funny thing is, it always rings true. I am capable of all of the behaviors that I judge other people so harshly for. In a sense, I am judging my own behavior that I see reflected back to me in the actions of others.

I am learning to have more empathy for those around me. In the process I am also learning to empathize with myself. My inner judge may eventually have to retire from the bench.

Day 47

I sometimes seem to be incapable of avoiding situations that are bound to make me crazy. I used to find myself in jobs where I had a lot of responsibility but very little control. Crazy making, right?

Yesterday I was reading an article about this economist who predicted the collapse of the housing bubble before others were even willing to call it a bubble. I always admire truth tellers, especially when their truth telling is risky. He was asked how others responded to his predictions when he started making them. He said that he was ignored. He pointed out that when a person expresses ideas that are critical and unpopular, they are generally ignored.

I could almost feel the light bulb glowing in my head. I have always been a critical person. I find fault with any system I am a part of and I am not shy about expressing my views. At the same time, I crave acceptance and I have a strong need to be heard. CRAZY MAKING.

Maybe I can try to balance these two needs a little more and modify my behavior accordingly. At the very least I don't have to keep behaving the same way and expecting different results. If I chose to speak out I can accept that others may not be willing to hear me. I may be ignored, or worse. At least, however, I will be just a little saner.

Day 46

I committed to participate in a couple of events that are fast approaching. The closer they get, the more resistant I seem to be. Frankly, at this point, I don't want to attend these event, let alone contribute in ways I have already agreed to. I feel frustrated and angry because I tell myself I do not have a choice; I have to attend. This is not entirely true.

I had a friend who's husband lost his job. They agreed that he would take a job in another part of the state. As the move approached my friend found herself getting more and more angry. I said to her, "You don't have to go." This only seemed to make her angrier. She adamantly held to her conviction, saying, "Of course I have to go. I don't have any choice in the matter."

My point was that she could decide to stay where she was and she and her husband could separate. She was going because she loved her husband and wanted to be near him. It was a choice.

This is something I often forget. I always have a choice. I believe that it was Victor Frankl who talked about the ballerina who danced her way to the gas chamber. We may not be able to chose our circumstances but we can always chose our response.

This freedom of choice carries with it an awesome responsibility. Perhaps that's why I cling to my self-righteous frustration and resistance instead.

Day 45

I have this personal humidifier that I use every day as a way to manage chronic sinus problems (I'll spare you the details). It broke this morning. I know it's silly but I am starting to be afraid to touch things for fear they will turn to rubble. It started last week. Bill's computer got a nasty virus and had to be replaced. A few days later the monitor went out on my computer necessitating a $150 purchase. Yesterday (this one is my favorite), Bill pulled up in front of the house and pulled the door lever on his truck to get out. It wouldn't open. I only wish I had been there to see my larger than average husband get out of a smaller than average vehicle by making his way across a cluttered seat to reach the passenger side door. Anyway, we're out hundreds of dollars and counting. For a couple of frugalistas like us it's a little disconcerting.

At the same time it's also a reminder that nothing lasts. For most of my life I have tried to avoid thoughts about the impermanent nature of all the things that make up the universe. The truth is that all the things I love, whether it be my humidifier or my beloved, will someday pass on.

I am reading a great book titled The Courage for Peace: Daring to Create Harmony in Ourselves and the World. The author, Louise Diamond talks about her experiences when she was diagnosed with a terminal illness. She went to a therapist who said:

So you are going to die. So what? Everyone is going to die. Maybe you have a better idea of how and when than most of us. Maybe not. You could outlive us all. Or you could leave this office and be hit by a car. If you feel sorry for yourself, I'm sure you have many friends who will join you with their pity. But there is another way to think about this. Imagine that Death, which is present for all of us, is just over your shoulder. Don't ask if you're going to die, or when; ask yourself how you want to be when Death comes for you.

WOW.

I am trying to learn to live each moment in peace. I can only do that when I recognize a basic truth: this moment is all there is and all I have. I am meditating on this as I sweep up the remains of my crumbling material possessions.

Day 44

I have struggled with anxiety for as long as I can remember. One of my earliest memories is of playing at a friend's house when I heard an ambulance in the distance. I ran home as fast as I could because I was worried that it might be going to my house. I never know what might provoke my anxiety.

For a few weeks my anxiety level has been escalating, like a barometer I can feel rising by degrees. It is particularly intense at night when I can't sleep and watch infomercials instead. I always try to identify the source as if that will alleviate the tug of war I feel inside. Sometimes it's hard to narrow it down to just one or two things. There are competing stressors.

Lately I've been thinking that perhaps it's not so important to identify the source of my anxiety. Maybe it's not something I can think my way out of. Instead, I try to just pay attention. Where is the tension in my body? How does it arise and move through? What is the tension saying to me?

Sometimes just being present to my discomfort is helpful. I find myself placing my hand on my abdomen, over the place where the knot usually lies and doing the only thing I know to do. I breath.

Day 43

My partner Bill and I celebrated Valentines Day by going to Walgreen's together and buying 2 boxes of candy, one for each of us. What can I say? We like candy and we're not terribly romantic. Actually I think that we both qualify as cynics and you know what they say about cynics, scratch the surface and you find a romantic.

Bill was the answer to a prayer. I share that reluctantly and immediately feel the need to qualify. First of all, I am not generally one to pray, let alone pray for a man. I'm not exactly sure what god is but I'm pretty sure she's not sitting in heaven answering the prayer hotline. I identified as a feminist for many years and was active in feminist activism. One day it hit me. I wanted to create a world in which men and women treat each other as equals yet I had never had an equal relationship with a man. I decided that I had to make the political personal. I was a single mother who wasn't afraid to use the f word (feminism or any other f word for that matter), clueless about how to find a man. I did what most people do when they feel helpless and hopeless. I cast my wish to the universe. "Universe, bring me a man," I said (well those probably were not my exact words).

Bill and I had a mutual friend and had met before. In fact, we worked at the same psychiatric hospital at one time. I saw him on the day I got connected to the internet. He was the only other person I knew who was also connected. We exchanged email addresses and agreed to write. I lived in a small town about 60 miles from Bill. Before long we were writing every day. A couple of years later when we moved in together we discovered that we had each saved every email we received from the other. OK, so maybe we are both romantics.

We have been together for about 15 years. I am amazed and grateful everyday for Bill's weird sense of humor and his willingness to listen. A few years ago we hit some really hard times. We went to a therapist who helped me learn to slow down and hear Bill's pain, even when it comes disguised as anger. Those are lessons that have helped me in every area of my life. I suppose that is what I am most grateful for. Bill has helped me to become a better person. Whispered prayers are sometimes answered in ways we can hardly imagine.

Day 42

Like most people I have learned to sit in meetings or classes and present a facade that says: "I'm here. I'm listening." I manage to make eye contact and give the occasional nod to indicate that my attention is focused on the speaker.

In reality, there is often an internal dialogue that has little to do with the external realities. During a recent meeting I found myself captivated by this internal dialogue. The craziness started with my sharing an insight (I thought) with the group. I then looked around to see how others responded. I didn't get the affirming nods and accolades that I hoped for (obviously I thought that my insight was pretty brilliant). I found myself thinking that these people don't really appreciate me. I started thinking about how I never really feel accepted or valued in this group. WHO ARE THEY TO JUDGE ME? THEY'RE JUST A BUNCH A DELUDED DIMWITS WHO ARE OBVIOUSLY BENEATH ME, SWINE UNWORTHY OF MY PEARLS OF WISDOM.

See what I mean about crazy? I just listened to the craziness inside my head. Eventually it became quiet, like an errant child after a tantrum. I few minutes later, after several sharp turns in the conversation, I felt compelled to share my gratitude for the leadership that some members had provided. Suddenly there were smiling faces turned my way. It felt radiant. I left the meeting feeling buoyed.

Sometimes I think that there isn't much distance between heaven and hell. They are both places that exist in my mind.

Day 41

I received a phone call last night. It was about 10:00 and I was sleepy, making plans to go to bed soon. The person on the other end of the phone was someone I had never really thought of as a friend, but rather more of an acquaintance. Now she sounded sad and worried. She told me about a family problem that she needed help with. I listened and offered my help. We agreed to talk again in a few days.

Over the years I've occasionally had someone reach out to me in this way. I always have the same reaction: what an honor. One of the things I've learned by studying nonviolent communication is that we all want to contribute to the world in meaningful ways. Sometimes the opportunities present themselves because someone reaches out and asks for help. What a gift that is.

I have never been good at asking for help. I am fiercely independent. I always thought of that as a virtue. Perhaps it is in some circumstances but I can't help to think about all the opportunities I missed to really connect with another person. Having the courage to reach out and ask for help is paradoxically a way to contribute to the lives of others.

I have a friend who is struggling with a health challenge. I told her I would bring over a dinner for her to share with her family while she is recovering. I'm so glad she said yes. That pot of soup will no doubt nourish us both.

Day 40

I am a typical first-born child: responsible, achievement oriented, bossy (at least that's what my little brother says). I am a good manager, always planning and organizing, following through on every detail. My friends and family generally count on me to be reliable and hold it all together. Confession: sometimes I get tired. I fantasize about walking away from my responsibilities, letting someone else clean up the messes.

I used to work in a psychiatric hospital. I sometimes envied patients who left their lives behind for a little psychotic respite. Sure the doors were locked but the tranquilizers were plentiful and staff were placating. I remember one especially stressful period in my life. I visited a friend who was recovering from surgery in the hospital. I found myself wishing that I was the one in the bed. I wanted to do nothing but stare at the television while nurses wheeled in carts of jello and pain pills.

But somehow I always manage to hold it together, sometimes just barely. I suppose that one of the things that keeps me clinging to sanity is the illusion that other people need me. I grew up with the sense that I was holding the universe together; if my vigilance ever wavered I was convinced that the world would spin out of control. I now know that isn't true but old habits die hard.

Day 39

It has been one month since I finished the first draft of my dissertation and sent it off to my committee chair. We agreed that she would have it back to me on February 8 with her comments and recommendations. I anxiously counted off the days on my calendar. February 8th came and went with no word from her. On February 9th I woke up with a knot in my stomach. Throughout the day the knot twisted and turned. Just after midnight I sent a brief email: Did I misunderstand? Is there a problem? Do we need to meet? Between the lines were other questions: Is my dissertation a piece of crap? Am I going to be fail? Have a wasted five years of my life working on this degree? Am I unworthy? Do I matter? It is now 11:20 am on February 10. The questions still hang in the balance.

Nonviolent communication is a model that can be used to deconstruct these kinds of circumstances. What happened? What am I feeling? What do I need? What requests do I need to make of myself or others? On one level it's really very simple. I am feeling frustrated because I need to know that I can count on the people on my committee to do what they say they will do. I need integrity in my relationships. On another level it is complicated by my own history and interpretations.

My dad was an alcoholic. As a girl, my life was filled with broken promises. I can remember waiting by the curb for my dad to arrive to take me off to some promised destination. He usually arrived very late, reeking of alcohol with apologies and promises about "next time." I still carry that pain with me. It is triggered by events such as the one with my committee chair. Suddenly I am 8 years old again, waiting by the curb, certain that I am not good enough.

I have spent most of my life not knowing how to deal with this pain. Today I am grateful that I can share this pain without lashing out at other people. I sometimes think that we are all "walking wounded" trying to find ways to heal ourselves and each other.

Day 38

One of the things that set me apart from my family as a child was my love of words. I was a logophile growing up in a home without books. There were seldom clean sheets of paper to write on or pencils and pens to write with. Notes were scribbled in crayon on the backs of discarded envelopes and old electric bills. I dreamed of making my home a shrine to the written word. My adult home is filled with books; there are partially used journals and notebooks everywhere and thousands of writing implements. There are words everywhere I look.

I sometimes find myself toying with a single word for months, turning it over in my mind, searching for meaning in cyberspace, using it in intimate notes that only I will read. Lately I have particularly enjoyed the company of the word transparent. In the past, I have used this word to describe something I strived for in my work as a social worker, manager and teacher. I tried to be open and honest; to reveal my intentions and motives; to make clear what I was doing and why I was doing it. Being transparent sometimes got me in trouble. I was convinced that keeping secrets was even more dangerous.

I was involved in a research project many months ago that involved interviewing a former prisoner, a man convicted of sex crimes. He talked about his life since prison and said that he was trying to be "transparent." It seemed that for him transparency was necessary if he ever hoped to overcome the painful urges that led him to victimize others.

Like the man I interviewed, I have spent much of my life living in murky waters. I could not see beneath the surface of circumstance. My reactive thoughts and feelings obscured the view. To be transparent is to see through. It is more than merely being open and honest.

My intention is to live according to the principles of nonviolence. I have come to think that violence (in all forms, whether it be self degradation, verbal and physical abuse of others or war) arises from the murky waters. So, how do we make the waters clear? How do we live a life that is transparent?

For me, this blog is a practice in transparency, a place where there are no secrets. Pretty scary stuff!

Day 37

I had one of those moments of pure joy a few days ago. My partner, Bill and I were driving home. We had just run a few errands around town and browsed a local thrift store before going to the food co-op where we ate fresh baked bread, sipped tea and talked. The joy that I felt flowed from a sense of belonging. I am 45 years old and for the first time in my life I know what it is to be home.



I moved a lot as a child. I once counted the number of schools I attended before I graduated high school. There were 9. Even as an adult I never stayed in one place more than 5 years before I felt myself being beckoned elsewhere. It wasn't just that I didn't want to put down roots; I didn't know how.



I live in a truly wonderful place now. A small college town with a charming downtown business district and plenty of cultural and civic events. I have made fun, interesting, caring friends here. It seems that I have found my tribe. But somehow I know that my sense of belonging is about more than a particular place or the people that make it a community. I suspect that something in me has changed.



About a year ago I found and started reciting a gatha by Thich Nhat Hanh:

I have arrived.
I am home.
In the here.
In the now.
I am solid.
I am free.
In the ultimate I dwell.

I have been searching for my way home for the longest time. Perhaps this little verse provided a map.

Day 35

I spent years searching for a church community to meet my need for spiritual fellowship. I went to Unitarian services and new thought churches and enjoyed standing in circles holding hands and singing The Peace Song. I went to more traditional Christian churches and was inspired by the life of Jesus, one of the greatest peacemakers of all time. I even went to Quaker meetings for a time. I loved the simplicity and serenity of merely sitting in silence, waiting to see if someone would be moved to stand and share the word.

I always had a vision for a different kind of church. This church had no pulpit or pews. I envisioned people sitting in a circle, simply sharing their experiences of the sacred. No dogma or doctrine. No scripture or rules.

For the last year, I have been attending a Zen Buddhist discussion group. I don't go every week. One of the things I like about the group is that people drop in and out to suit the circumstances of their lives and their personal needs. It is very loosely organized. We meet in a coffee shop. We discuss Buddhist texts as well as the sacred and profane details of our experiences.

More than anything else what I appreciate about this group is that people seem to be fully present. We attend only to the discussion. People in this group seem to really listen to one another. There are sometimes long, calm silences as we consider what has been said. There is a shared intention here, to try to live each moment fully.

I almost always come away from this group with a little jewel that I continue to bring out and enjoy throughout the week. Today we talked about how we can live with the intention to respond to each situation we find ourselves in with compassion.

Responding to life with compassion. Is there a higher spiritual calling? More and more I am convinced that the divine doesn't just live in temples, but also in coffee houses.

Day 34

I made an enemy today. She probably wasn't even aware that I had made her into an enemy. Her name is Donna and she works for Washington State University. She doesn't have a face or a voice. Our contacts are limited to email. She started it.

I received an email from her last week with a TO DO list attached. I was advised that I had to complete the items on the list in order to graduate (this in addition to 2 years of course work, preliminary exams and 2 years of research). This started a volley of email back and forth; me seeking clarification, her telling me about all of the rules that stand between me and my degree. At some point I started to feel that I was in some kind of battle to the finish. This bitch was standing between me and my degree. The fight was on.

I called Nick in order to enlist him, hoping he would join up on my side. Nick is also an employee of the college. In addition to having a name and an email address, he also has a face and voice. As I explained my frustration he laughed and told me he deals with these kinds of problems all the time. It seems that Nick knows Donna and was unwilling to join me in my little war against her. In fact, he said, "Donna's a really nice person."

Whoa! Donna is a person. Suddenly I knew that she wasn't out to get me. She was just a person trying to do her job. To her I am probably just a name on a form. I suppose that's part of the problem. When people get reduced to names and numbers, it's easy to forget their humanity. Maybe someday soon I'll stop in and see Donna and call it a truce. Maybe after I graduate...

Day 33

Yesterday I went out to lunch with my son. At his request we haven't been talking to each other as often as we used to. I asked him how this was going for me. He said, "good" with a little more enthusiasm than I might have liked. We laughed about how well this arrangement is working out for him and joked about how great he would do with even more distance between us.

Then he said something interesting. He said, "You seem to be worrying about me less." This isn't really true. I worry about him everyday. I'm a mom. That's what I do. However, without our phone conversations there is no opportunity for him to hear the worry in my voice. I started imagining what that must be like for him. He shares his plans, fears, hopes and dreams with me and in my response he hears fear. Embarking on adulthood is hard. My fear must make it even more challenging for him.

I hope that my son realizes that my fear has nothing to do with him. My fear is about me. It is about all the runaway trains, blind corners and treacherous falls I have experienced in my life. It is about my history with him. In my mind I do not always see him as the smart, thoughtful, resourceful person he has become. I can't help but see in him the baby I held and the boy who ran to me crying. I sometimes forget that his path is his own, separate from mine.

I forget...and I am afraid.

Day 32

Sometimes it's really hard to be a grownup. I don't mean it's hard being a grownup. I mean it is hard to maintain my emotional integrity as an adult when circumstances and events threaten to transform me into a sniveling six year old.

Today, something happened. It was a small thing, really. I was already feeling vulnerable (perhaps it was hormones, perhaps it was facing the mammogram machine for my annual screening, perhaps it dealing with the bureaucratic red tape that stands between me and my degree, perhaps it was the way the moon and stars are aligned...I don't know). Someone said something (or was it what they didn't say) and suddenly I had tears in my eyes. I felt small and insignificant. They didn't hear me. I didn't matter. I was six years old again. There was nothing to do but cry. The tears were the path back to my grownup self, back to a place where I can stand up for myself and ask for what I need.

I've heard it said that children are prisoners of circumstance. Freedom is the best thing about being a grownup. I just have to remember to choose it.

Day 31

I just watched a You Tube video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sf1wFC2ul7M) of Derrick Jensen talking about education. My heart was pounding as I listened to him "bash education" (his words, not mine). Why are his words so alive for me?

First, my son has been talking a lot about how alienating he finds the educational process to be as a college student. Jensen hits the nail on the head when he suggests that the purpose of education is to separate us from ourselves, to turn us into good little workers; to break our will. I'm afraid for my son who is struggling so hard against this indoctrination. What happens to people who refuse to comply? Will he ever be employable? Will he end up destitute and homeless?

I also recognize that my son's struggles correspond to some degree to my own. In my own life, I am on the precipice of change, high on a cliff, miles from safety, my toes curled like talons clutching the edge. I am afraid to look down. I know that it is time to step off. Will I fall to my death or fly? For me, that's the way it feels to be graduating with a "terminal degree" (I love that term - so apropos).

Listening to Jensen today, I came to realize that I spent 11 years in college and never learned to quell the questions and critiques of 'the system'. As a result, there is no place for me within the 'the system'. What will become of me? Will I ever be employable? Will I end up destitute and homeless?

Damn you, Derrick Jensen. Now what?

Day 30

I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but one of my favorites just shows a closeup image of a woman's smallish hand with the middle finger protruding. The title: Pissed Off. It's a memoir written by a woman who, much like me, has been pissed off for a good portion of her life.

Looking at the pictures of my cherubic two year old self, I know that I wasn't born angry. I cannot, however, remember a time when angry wasn't a frequent and close companion. Yet most people would describe me as "nice" or "sweet" or "kind" (oh, yeah, that really pisses me off). Mostly I keep my anger a secret. It simmers quietly until one day it boils over. Then watch out.

Today I have already been pissed off at least twice. First, I went to the gym and found it packed with short-timers trying to work off those holiday pounds. Going to the gym is not my favorite activity, I prefer to do it without some sweaty guy panting on the next machine. I like my space and I am willing to juggle my schedule to avoid peak times. The problem: for the last month all times are peak times. I immediately need to determine who is to blame here. It's the owners, the greedy bastards, they've oversold the place. I should give them a piece of my mind. This is where I stop myself because I know that sometimes speaking out only fuels the flames for me.

I belong to a writing group that meets many of my social needs as well as my need for encouragement and support. Recently I made a request at a meeting that we limit the number of pieces that we discuss at each meeting. There was very little discussion about my request. I made the assumption (uh huh, you know I'm in trouble now) that others must be in agreement since they didn't express any dissention. I thought we agreed on the two pieces that we would consider at our next meeting. I put it out of my mind, until today. Several people have submitted additional pieces for consideration at our next meeting. What the hell? Did they not hear my request? Did they disagree but were unwilling to talk about it? Are they being passive aggressive? These are the the places my mind goes like a race car, 0 to 60 in 3.8 seconds.

I am learning to slow down. I am learning to ask: what do I need? I am finding over and over that the need to be heard is an important one for me. I took all the stuff we learned in school about democracy seriously. I want to have my say and I want you to have your say. I am a great believer in the power of discussion.

I hope that those of us in the writing group can have an open dialogue about our respective needs and our vision for the group. If not, I hope that I will find a way to get my needs met, either in this group or elsewhere. I suspect I will keep slogging along trying to get a better handle on this anger thing.

When I was a very little girl one of my favorite stories was one called The Littlest Angel. It was about an angel with disheveled wings and a dirty face, who preferred playing in the dirt to playing the harp. Many of the nonviolent communication practitioners I have met or read about seem rather angelic to me. They say and do all the right things, their feet barely touching the ground. I used to be intimidated by this, knowing that I would never be so serene. Recently, I stopped trying. I am becoming more comfortable with holding my anger and my intention for nonviolence simultaneously, just as the little angel accepted himself as an angel with very human qualities.