Know thyself

There is something that you probably know about me that I struggle to come to terms with all the time. That is, I have a horrible time trying to know myself. I don’t know why the Oracle of Delphi was so blasé when they carved the phrase “know thyself” on the entrance to the temple, because for me, nothing could be harder. I say that you know because I think that our impressions about people are generally correct and while authors like Jane Austin have made a good name for themselves writing about how our impressions are invariably wrong, I have more faith in human intuition.

Know thyself. Know thyself. How the hell do you know yourself? What does it mean? I can stare in a mirror and memorize my features, I can sit in rapt meditation and recall all of the episodic moments of my life and yet, for all of my intimate knowledge of myself, I know myself not.

The most frustrating thing is that I take these personality tests likes Meyers-Briggs and they always end up different. I take one and I am an introvert, another and I am an extrovert. J. and I spent several months going over the results of just such a test with our local pastor. My conclusion? I am very human. Sometimes l like to be around people, and when I am their opinions matter to me, very much. Other times I like to be on my own and in these time when others interject their opinions I feel frustrated even angry at the intrusion. So far, so good.

Sadly I am unaware of these subtle shifts in my own personality. I am frequently frustrated by my own lack of understanding about simple things like what I want. I find mundane tasks like washing the dishes either annoying beyond believe or thoroughly satisfying. The difference being entirely on what time of day I choose to do them.

Talking with my wife this morning she made the then funny comment that she hated checking voicemail. It never occurred to me that voicemail was a thing to be disdained, so I asked her why. She gave me a funny sort of look and said that it had something to do with her past and taking ownership of things. I laughed because for me voicemail is the classic example of how not to take ownership of things. In moment where I want nothing more that to be alone, voicemail is king. I could have entire conversations doing nothing but trading voicemail. It would be like email, but with words. For me it is the ultimate in noncommittal relationships. Leave a voice mail and walk away. For my wife, it is something altogether different. For her, voicemail represents a kind of commitment. Something once listened to has to be given response.

The funny thing is, I think people have their own Ideas about me. They know, long before I do, whether or not I am going to return that voicemail. They have decided, and in deciding I have been defined. For them I am no longer the mystery. I am the fact. For myself the opposite is true. I have no idea, listening to the voicemail if I am an introvert hating to respond, or the extrovert, longing for the chance to be a part of the conversation.

In his monumental painting, Paul Gauguin asks the eternal questions. Where do we come from? Who are we? Where are we going? It is a monumental canvas that seems to beg to be read from right to left. On the right is an image of a young girl and an infant, the representation of birth, a beginning. On the left is an image of an old woman, the representation of death and the end. The story seems to be told, as all stories are, about infancy, life and our eventual end. Except that Gauguin has inverted the order of the story. In the west we read from left to right, and so the story would seem to be told from the end, namely death, to the beginning, which is life.

This morning I was standing, waiting for my daughters when I found myself engaged with the church secretary. I can’t remember the impetus of the conversation, but found myself saying, “I remember clearly my grandmother telling me that, as you got older, the days went by faster. I remember this because at the time I had no idea what she was talking about. But now, now that I am older I see exactly what she means. The days seem to run though my fingers like grains of sand on the beach, and I can no more slow them than I can look at them and wonder.”

There is a Zen story about a sermon of a Buddha in which he simply lifted a flower. Most looked on questioning but one looked with understanding. How do you explain a flower? Imagine you are describing it to a blind person. What would you say. Would you say that it is extroverted? Introverted? What is the meaning of the universe? What is the meaning of you or of I? It is just there. I think that if I were sitting there looking at that flower I would be one of those eyes that question. I would want to know what the Buddha was saying to me. What does he mean by “flower.” Why this flower and not that. What else is there? Why do I not understand?

I look at these questions, like I look at the question of know thyself and I see so much doubt. Who am I? My god. I have been with myself so long and I still don’t know the answer. How stupid is that? I trust the momentary intuition of strangers over the chorus of my own experiences, when really I should just listen to them. I listen to myself talk and I think, “Why don’t I listen to myself?” and then, instead of listening, I forget.

So, that is it. I spend so much time thinking about what it means to be here or there, to be angry or sad, to be busy or lazy, and all the time I am doubting the very things that are telling me why I am here. The truth is I am just here. I am engaged in the activity of being alive. I keep telling myself that I am looking for meaning, that I can know myself, but really what better knowledge is there that the experience of being alive? I find an immense amount of comfort in the idea that being alive is the, THE reason for life, and then, just when I think that I have it, I am distracted by life and it all slips away.

What Then?

In a recent Facebook status line I wrote “when we are disturbed we need only look to ourselves for the source of our agitation.” It is a quote I lifted from the literature of Alcoholics Anonymous that was shared with me several years ago by a friend in that program. I love that quote for many reasons. Mainly, it is a reminder that I need to take personal responsibility for my feelings. Sure people can be difficult and even that is an understatement at times. But all I can do is choose to react or ignore behavior that I find disquieting. Usually I react, and my reactions tend to leave me feeling even more unhappy and upset, and so I use this reminder, as a way of telling myself “think before you react.”

Anyway, I posted this thing in my status line and my friend from Az. Commented “What then?” Which totally left me stumped. I mean sure I know that I am the one that is making me crazy, depressed or down right irritable, but what then? Some months ago I blogged about watching a friend decompress after having become upset with his child. I marveled at his ability to self-sooth and craved it for myself. I sad to report that I still fair no better in this department. So, what then?

You may notice that my blog has been quiet for some many months and that I only recently started posting again. Honestly my readership was never that extensive and I wonder whom, if anyone I am writing this for? Posterity? The Void? Interestingly when I reactivated the blog I noticed that several sites listed on my blog-list were also dormant or otherwise neglected. It seems starting about a year ago people began to drop off blogging one by one. They all had their reasons and all those reasons are good, but it made me realize the absence the dialogue that I had created for myself. I would read other people’s blogs, comment on them, post responses of my own and of course write my thoughts and experiences and so forth. It was great fun, and I miss it. I don’t suppose I will have anything like that again, but in an effort to rekindle what was once so important to me, I have decided to start writing again.

I only mention this because I asked myself the same question that my friend asked me. What then? You see I, like everyone else, experienced set backs this year. Unforeseen events which, in some cases were caused but my own actions and in some cases caused by others, but which, in the end caused me to recoil and hide away. I have been in a kind of cocoon waiting for something, anything to tell me that the craziness, the pain, and the suffering were over. I tried starting a new blog, hoping a fresh start would some how help me. But it was a half-hearted attempt and really it left me very frustrated. People told me that my blog was too depressing or that my blog was too brainy and I let these comments affect me as well. In the end I stopped blogging not so much because blogging wasn’t working for me as I did because I reacted. I didn’t think. I reacted.

The saying “when we are disturbed…” the saying I started this thought on, comes from a discussion about the meaning of the tenth step of alcoholics anonymous, which says “continued to take personal inventory, and when we are wrong promptly admitted it.” You will note that this saying says nothing about getting it right. In fact it rather shamelessly suspects that I will get it wrong and will have to do something about it. The axiom of the tenth step, that my feelings are my own and do not come about as the result of the actions of others reminds me that not only am I going to get it wrong, but the subsequent step I take will probably be wrong as well. Which is exactly what I described above. I get upset (probably wrong), I react badly (wrong), I make things worse. For me, “what then?” is not a reminder to do things right. What’s done is done. For me, “what then?” is a chance to unspool the actions that I have taken, and then to possibly learn from them.

I miss blogging. Blogging, for me, was always a chance to sit down and reflect a little bit on this or that. I won’t deny that I enjoyed the idea of having “readers” but that it was never really about readers. I was more of a diary, a chance at reflections, and that is really all I need it to be. I don’t have to have the world’s happiest blog, nor do I need to smart it up or dumb it down. For me “what then” is to be content with what I have, and a chance to start over and try again and possibly, just possibly, do things a little better the next time.

So blog. It is me and you. Let’s see if we can’t try again, and maybe have a little fun in the process.

Birth, Death, and Rebirth

December is, in the mind of a child, synonymous with winter and, of course, Christmas. My own memories of Christmas are sporadic. I remember, for example the first time I heard Santa filling my stocking followed abruptly by the muffled sounds of my father stubbing his toe. I remember the time my great-grandfather was brought to our house from the nursing home and realized that he had no idea who any of us were or why he was there. It was my first experience with senior dementia. It sounds glum, but many of my Christmas memories are dark, though not all. I remember the time my Santa brought me a Big wheel-like John Deer Tractor, or the time I nearly leapt into the fireplace, as I was so excited that I received the star wars figurine I desired. Good memories are, in general, associated with childhood presents. A few though have been formed upon reflection. I can for example summon to mind the last Christmas I spent with my great grandmother, and while I can with equal rapidity recall the Christmas I had a terrible fight with my father, I recall with equal clarity how my grandfather helped me overcome the emotions of that fight by allowing me to sob hysterically into his overcoat while he sat patiently stroking my back.

I think it is fair to say that Christmas, for me, is a mixed bag. It has been good. It has been bad. It has been surreal, blessed and spooky. I guess in that way you could say that Christmas is a day like any other. For every day has something different. But I won't insist too strongly on this point, after all, I think we all know that this is not entirely true, and to insist that it is, is to deny centuries of celebration and veneration that has held our imagination since practically forever. Christmas is something special, a time of great focus and attention, and to say it is nothing more than a day like any other is to deny something intrinsic not just about the holiday, but about ourselves.

It is interesting how we are creatures of celebration. I mean there isn’t a culture known that doesn’t celebrate something, and that, in the least says something about the importance of a day like Christmas. I mean who doesn't celebrate something? A birthday, an anniversary? and I mean really, who hasn’t heard of Christmas?

I started this musing because of a sentence that popped into my head. The sentence was “Christmas is a day where we celebrate the birth of a baby that will die four months later.” I don’t know where that thought came from or why I thought of it. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, and certainly not on the holidays. It just sort of came into my mind and there it was. It wasn’t supposed to be dark. I think I was telling myself that holidays that occur in the darkest of winter can be about birth, and that holidays that occur in the spring can be about death, even though it would seem that just the opposite should be true. I mean, why do we celebrate the death of Jesus (and technically his rebirth) just as spring in bounding into life? In the same vein, why do we celebrate the birth of a baby even as all around us is dead and dying?

For those of you rushing to answer, realize, please that these are rhetorical questions. The real question isn’t about birth, or death, the real question is, why does it matter? Not, why does it matter that a baby is born, or why Jesus or anything like that. Those questions I have. They have been beaten into me in Sunday school and in an infinite string of sermons and Catholic nuns in High school. No, that question I think I got. No, the real question is, when there is so much pessimism and cynicism and doubt, why, when Christmas really does sometimes feel like just another day, albeit a day with presents and turkey, why does Christmas matter?

I recoil just a bit at this question because it feels a little like “Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.” But in the end, it is exactly that Christmas is a day like any other, a day of birth and a day of death, as day of cycles and change, and a day when all of this is brought to our attention. It is precisely because of this day that I can summon so many good things, so many bad things, and so many different memories of all sorts. It is a day in which the memories my parents, my grandparents and my great-grandparents can be summoned back with such clarity it is as though they are alive for me once more. Old memories are summoned and new ones are formed. It is a time when the past and future collide, a time of death and rebirth, and, I think, why humans tend to celebrate, not just this holiday, but any. These times hold a mysterious power over us, they are unexplainable, mysterious, and, I think, if we were wiser, we would fear them, and not just because of the sacrifices and the stresses, but because the power of these days of celebration, and the myths and stories that surround them which are awesome in their power to hold us.

I think I will close by adding a comment made by Joseph Campbell: “The individual has to find an aspect of myth that relates to his own life… The first is the mythical function, the one I have been talking about, realizing what a wonder the universe is, and what a wonder you are, and experiencing awe before this mystery. Myth opens the world to the dimension of mystery, to the realization of the mystery that underlies all forms, if you lose that, you don’t have a mythology. If mystery is manifest through all things, the universe becomes, as it were, a holy picture. You are always addressing the transcendent mystery though the conditions of your actual world.”

This never ends

Being faced with an accusation is strange. The other day I had what I thought to be a rather straightforward meeting with my graduate committee. The purpose of the meeting was to show them the final selections of paintings for my thesis exhibition, as well as to provide a draft of the paper I am working on, the final version of which to be turned in at the time of the exhibition, in four weeks.

But like anything in my graduate experience it was neither straightforward nor simple. Here is the thing. The paper was not formatted. There are strict guidelines from the office of the Graduate school about how the paper is to be formatted, but this is not what I am talking about. Sure it didn’t yet conform to those guidelines, but more importantly it lacked brackets, quotation marks, endnote notations, and really any kind of citation reference. Additionally I provided no works cited sheet. In retrospect, the whole thing is a huge oversight, a great blunder on my part that opened the door to scrutiny. I mean, if I have learned anything in graduate school it is “ALWAYS COVER YOUR ASS!” As I said, it was a huge blunder.

The meeting had hardly started when one of the professors asked me what my sources were. I was caught off guard. I didn’t know where he was going with this. I stammered something. His next comment hit me square in the chest. “Because it looks to me like the first four paragraphs were literally lifted from another source.”

Let’s pause right there. I don’t know how you write papers, but my style usually includes, brainstorming a few ideas and then pasting them alongside large swaths of cited material that form a kind of skeleton. As the revisions continue I edit and redact this cited material, adding in my own framework wherever possible, and where it isn’t I use citation. The end result is a paper that is entirely mine and that in no way takes credit for thoughts that are not my own.

Unfortunately the faculty didn’t see it that way. I was asked to leave the room at which point, from the hall I could hear a heated argument ensue. It lasted better than half an hour and when they were finished they called me back in. I knew the final verdict was bad even before anyone spoke because no one would look me in the eye. I was told that the committee was going to refer this problem on to the Dean of Students for possible academic sanction. I was stunned and horrified.

I don’t know how you are under pressure. But I am terrible. In moment like these I am usually so full of shame and frustration that it is impossible for me to form a coherent thought. I did the one thing I could think to do and said “Good! I want this thing brought to light so that I can have a chance to clear my name. I am not a plagiarist!”

On my way out of the building I called one of my best and oldest friends, who is incidentally an attorney. I told him what had happened and that I that I had been accused of plagiarism. “Well” he said, “did you?” I had to think about that for a minute. I mean the short answer here is probably “yes” in the sense that it was a huge mistake not to provide the references to my sources, but the long answer, the answer that I keep bringing myself back to is “It was a draft.”

It was a draft. Everyone in that room will acknowledge this fact. If I were to have taken the same paper to the writing center in the college library the first thing they would have said it “you need to note your citations and resubmit this.” There would have been no academic sanction. Why? Because it was a draft. The whole purpose of the meeting was to talk about the draft. I expected the faculty to cut it apart. That was the point. But not like this. Not like this.

So now I am left with this sense of indignation, humiliation, and fear. I drafted a letter (no pun intended) apologizing for this mistake, taking full responsibility for my actions, and asking the committee to reconsider, but judging from my track record with these people I am bracing myself, hunkering down and getting ready for what I assume will be a long drawn out fight.

“One week” I said, “one week left.” Now it seems I am back to that same old feeling, namely “This never ends.” Well that and wondering why pornographers keep trying to leave comments on the end of all my recent posts...

Which is Libby which is Cindy Sherman?

Moving on

In February I told you about the great art caper. Not one of my proudest moments, to be sure. But in the end, it was resolved amicably. The head of the art department got wind of my actions, hell he probably read my blog, and worked out a deal in which I was to provide the student with four newly stretched blank canvases and all parties would agree that the matter was settled.

Well Karma is a bitch. I can tell you that. You may think you have made your amends and then Bam! It gets you. I got a call Monday afternoon from a fellow grad who informed me that all of my paintings had been tagged. I say all because I had just finished hanging my paintings for my upcoming thesis oral that will take place this Friday. Someone snuck in late Sunday night, probably between 1 and 2 in the morning and painted a brilliant red stripe right through the middle of each of ten canvases that I have been working on collectively since last August.

Now I have to tell you that I was pissed. Right? But as I made arrangements with J. to go out there immediately, I had already begun forming the nucleus of my response which was- the suffering ends here. I have had my share in this stint of vandalism, but the last thing I wanted was to perpetuate this nonsense any further. It has to end.

I went to work, lectured for an hour and then drove out to school to survey the damage. Fortunately while at work I ran into a colleague, a print maker, versed in solvents, and he hooked me up with just the formula that I needed to undo the damage. There is no solvent in the world that will remove spray paint without softening the acrylic underneath; the trick it to find the solvent that is mild enough to loosen the enamel enough to sponge it off while doing minimal damage to the under-painting.


I worked diligently last night giving each of my precious babies a sponge bath and then went back again today to retouch the original painting with a fresh coat to hide the damage. The net result was nothing short of miraculous. That and my attitude, which I was able to keep in check despite the constant stream of on lookers who kept asking “why aren’t you more pissed off?” to which I would frequently and annoyingly respond “It’s just another opportunity for spiritual growth.” I have to admit I took a lot of secret pleasure in that response, but I always delivered it stoically and with great reserve. You would have been proud.

Well I am ready for my Oral exam on Friday, but I want to leave you with a parting thought that was given to me by my friend the Un-

“The weird thing is, it fits in with my whole theory about Final Exams. Which, if I have never unloaded this onto you, I will do so now. When you're finishing a job or academic program, my theory is (this comes from the Professoressa, actually) that the universe often if not ALWAYS presents us with some kind of special Final Exam. We're being asked, ‘Are you really ready to move on to the next thing?’ And this is additional/extra to our required earthly exams--this is a special spiritual exam. I had them leaving Santa Fe, or leaving England [snip] Hell, *I* had one the night *I* was ordained, in 2002. It's a weird thing that just happens. It's almost like the gods are saying (I think): ‘Okay, you've done all the required stuff and you've jumped through all the corporeal hoops. But we all know (they say to you) that your REAL work here wasn't about signing papers and filling out forms and getting As and managing to complete thesis shows. Your REAL work here was something deeper--something spiritual. Have you passed that test? Have you learned what we Gods wanted you to learn? And most importantly are you ready to go onto the NEXT thing?’

So I think all this shit that's flying at you, suddenly, inexplicably--with the program, with this horrific vandalism, with [snip] life even--is your Real Final Exam. Inviting you to think about what the last five years has REALLY been about, because we both know it wasn't just about accumulating letters on a transcript. There was a real spiritual work you have been doing, alone at night with those canvases, in those confrontational interactions you've had with your department members, writing those blogposts. Something deep and secret, known only to you.”

I share this with you because I feel the gut wrenching truth of it in every word. Sure life offers you challenges, and when life gives you lemons you make lemonade etc. But that isn’t what is being said here. What I hear my friend saying is that there are tests in life, moments that say are you ready to move on to the next phase, have you done what you needed to do here and are you able to put it all down and move on? I believe this because I know it is true, but also because I really feel that I am ready for this test, that my attitude, my ability to set is all aside fix the problem and move on is the answer to that test. So one Friday I am going to take out my no. 2 pencil and fill in the bubble that says “next” and win lose or draw I am moving on.

One more week

My sister called me last week wanting to know the date my thesis exhibition. “I’m thinking about coming” she said. I told her that I wasn’t sure but that I thought it was slated for the last week in April. “I’m meeting with my Chair on Thursday” I told her. “I know for sure then.”

The meeting was fairly typical. I had hung a painting I had worked on over spring break and we started with a brief critique. He was pressed for time so he moved to cut the meeting short at which point I told him I had a few questions about the thesis exhibition.

“What are your questions?”

I asked him when the date was and his response was “you figure it out.” Then I asked him about the oral examination that was to go along with the exhibition. He started to answer, then paused and said “of course all of this depends on whether or not your committee approves your exhibition.”

“What do you mean?”

“You committee need to approve the exhibition in advance of the final show.” I looked at him stupidly for a moment as his words sunk in. “You have another hurdle to jump” he said.

“I thought that is was the midterm was about.”

“No.”

I have to admit I felt a little crazy right about that time, but as the reality of the situation sank in I grew into acceptance. I mean, I knew that I was going to have to defend my work in front of my committee, right? It just turns out that I have to do that defense in advance of the show, not right before it. In short, I went from having about four weeks to get ready for my defense to meeting with my committee next week.

“You know what is coming” he said, referring to the midterm “You just have to decide how you react to it.” I thought of the prison rape scene in the movie the Shawshank Redemption. “It’s like getting a speeding ticket” he continued “do you call the cop a prick and give him the finger or do you take the ticket, smile and thank him?”

I felt pretty good about the situation at first. All I have to do is paint my ass off for a week. I know what the faculties objections are, I got that earful at midterm. So, correct the problems and move on. However, when I woke up this morning I felt needlessly crazy. The pronouncement felt random, worse it felt personal, and it left me with a sinking feeling of insecurity and depression.

I was talking about this with my wife when it hit me. The situation might be personal and insecure. But does that mean I have to be? Looking back over my blog posts from the last few years I have noted an inordinate number of posts that have to do with the stresses of grad school. Most of them I can’t even bring myself to read. It is safe to say that graduate school has provided me with a limitless number of opportunities for spiritual growth. But here is the thing, I seem to have evaded the most basic one, namely that I get to choose how I react to this situation. Do I roll over and die in a little grey puddle of depression, or do I realize that this is not about me, in that great, character defining sense of ‘is this about me’ way. Sure it is about me work and it could have a profound effect on my future, but something tells me being afraid isn’t going to help.

So for today my mantra is “it maybe personal and insecure, but that doesn’t mean I have to be.”

I knew this thing was coming. It's just coming faster than I originally thought. In reality, if I do this thing right, I have one more week. Jesus! One more week. Is that all? Suddenly I wonder what have I been doing for the past five years and where all that time went. Where has all that work gone? One more week. Wow. I wonder What will step up and make me crazy once graduate school is gone?