Transformation underway...

Hello, friends and beloveds. I hope you are staying healthy, or recovering if you have been ill.

I have a big announcement: as of July 1st, I will no longer be an associate professor of English at Ohio Wesleyan University. 

I have opted to take the early retirement package offered by the university as a measure to reduce the faculty size (in hopes of not laying off tenured and tenure-track faculty members).

It was a complicated decision, involving consultations with family members, a financial advisor, and my primary doctor. (The disability insurance company also had to be consulted by the university's head of HR.)

And I'm having complicated feelings about it.

On the one hand, it's kind of a relief not to worry about whether I should be trying to gear up to go back to work, trying to figure out if my body could withstand 15 weeks of teaching without breaking down again. My attempts at various projects at home have made it quite clear that I cannot make a commitment to 15 weeks of anything, much less the physically and emotionally and mentally demanding job of teaching college students. By taking early retirement, I can just focus on resting and healing now.

But it's also kind of sad. I miss teaching so very much. So much it's an ache in my heart. In the past two years of being on sick leave, I have been envisioning my return to the classroom, and it was always a happy vision, even when I knew I wasn't ready yet. I always saw myself returning to teaching because I love it.

It's scary, too. Leaving my tenured job means not just leaving THIS job, but leaving ALL of academia, the whole thing. There is no going back, and there is no getting hired by another institution. So leaving this job feels a bit like stepping off a cliff.

There is no going back.

But maybe it's less like stepping off a cliff, and more like... becoming something else.

There are quiet moments of hope, almost excitement, about what the future might bring. About the life I could build if/when I recover my health. About the fun things I could do with my knowledge and expertise, sharing them with people and helping them see the amazing world that opened to me in my studies. Maybe I could take up my writing projects again; maybe I could start new ones.

I know how lucky I am--to have a supportive family, to be able to take this step, to have tools that will help me deal with the fear and anxiety that such a change brings. I am deciding to make room for joy, as well, and hope and excitement.

I'm sure I will be processing this change, getting used to what it means, for months to come. After all, transformation takes time.

Wishing you peace in the midst of change,
Karen

Black Lives Matter

It's been a while since I posted, and there's a lot going on, but I wanted to get this out there:

Black art matters.
Black joy matters.
Black poetry matters.
Black physicians matter.
Black ballet dancers matter.
Black bus drivers matter.
Black mothers matter.
Black sons matter.
Black daughters matter.
Black fathers matter.
Black uncles matter.
Black aunties matter.
Black filmmakers matter.
Black restaurant owners matter.
Black transwomen matter.
Black transmen matter.
Black storytellers matter.
Black students matter.
Black teachers matter.
Black writers matter.
Black photographers matter.
Black birdwatchers matter.
Black waitresses matter.
Black ministers matter.
Black opera singers matter.
Black journalists matter.
Black knitters matter.

Black lives matter.

A Journal of the [Coronavirus] Year (?)

Dear friends,

There's a LOT going on right now, holy moly.

(Here is a link to a short video of Dr. Amy Acton, director of Ohio's Department of Health, giving a mini-lecture on the pandemic on Sunday, March 15: https://youtu.be/uloe-oC3z2U )

So much change to our normal lives, so much anxiety about what is coming, so much disruption to the most mundane of tasks (getting groceries, paying the utility bills, getting a haircut). It's a lot to deal with, and sometimes too much. I am still figuring out how to do this, even though I've pretty much been self-isolating for two years already, thanks to chronic illness!

My goal for the next couple days is to a) rest a lot (I am currently getting over a cold) (or at least I think that's what it is, but WHO KNOWS because there are no tests available), and b) transition from being obsessed with FB & Twitter to doing things that will make me feel less stressed and anxious, and that will bring more peace and joy. I made a whole list of possibilities! And they're all things I'm looking forward to doing.

One of them is writing--in my journal, in my notebook, or on my computer, using the mode that suits me at whatever moment I have the energy to write. I have seen several historians urge people to keep a diary of some sort, a record of what's happening and what you're feeling as we make our way through this unprecedented time. (The title of this post is a revised reference to a novel by Daniel Defoe, a fictionalized version published in the 1720s of one person's experience of the bubonic plague in London in 1665.)

I think, for generations to come, people are going to be interested in learning what it was like to go through this global event. If you're thinking, "I'm recording this for posterity, I'd better write about every single thing that happened today," let me tell you: that's not feasible! Especially with situations changing hour by hour.

So a format that limits or focuses what we do can be helpful. I am using a couple options outlined by Lynda Barry in her book Syllabus. The book provides materials from when she taught classes at the University of Wisconsin--her syllabus, but also class policies, homework assignments, classroom activities, all sorts of things. It's a really fabulous book!

One of her assignments for students is that they keep a diary--writing by hand about each day in a simple composition book. She offers two formats; I call the first one the "list" format. It looks like this:

From p. 63, the "list" diary format: what you did, what you saw,
something you heard, and a sketch of something from your day.

The idea here is to make a couple of lists (what you did, what you saw), write down a couple phrases you overheard, and add a drawing. Don't spend a lot of time on any of it, including the drawing. These are just sketches from your day, verbal and pictorial.

The second format is what I think of as the "X" format; it looks like this:

From p. 132: The "X" format includes the same information,
but in a different layout.

There's the same basic information, and drawing, but in a format that lets you use the page a little differently.

One excellent aspect of using these formats is that they're quick, focused, and limited. When I think about doing one of these pages, I don't feel preemptively exhausted.

One last note: I can't draw worth a DANG, never have been able to, except maybe for that time when I was a preteen and taught myself to draw horse heads because I was obsessed with horses and wanted them to adorn everything I owned. I am pretty much limited to stick figures, and always embarrassed by my efforts to go beyond that. (Especially because I have two VERY TALENTED artists for sisters, and my brother makes amazing technical drawings. Ahem.)

However, Barry's book has given me a way to branch out from stick figures. She teaches her students to make figures in the style of Ivan Brunetti, who describes using shapes for the body parts. They're still simple, but look identifiable as people, too.

From p. 69, Brunetti's formula: a circle head, rectangle body,
simple features, and simple limbs. Voila!

Side note about Syllabus: at the heart of this book is Barry's overarching project of including students in the process of exploring profound questions about how ideas travel from person to person, how "the natural human instinct for storytelling [becomes] a means of transferring something from one person to another" (9). What is that something? Why does it seem to have a life of its own?

I also appreciate her thoughts on what happens when we abandon drawing as something we're "bad at," fairly early in life:

"Daily practice with images both written and drawn is rare once we have lost our baby teeth and begin to think of ourselves as good at some things and bad at other things. It's not that this isn't true, but the side effects are profound once we abandon a certain activity like drawing because we are bad at it. A certain state of mind ... is also lost. A certain capacity of the mind is shuttered and for most people, it stays that way for life. It is a bad trade." (115)

From p. 115, the passage quoted above in Barry's handwriting,
with illustrations.

Reading through this book and thinking about my colleagues, I miss our students very much. I am grateful to be on leave still, as the additional stress of transferring classes to online modes would really be bad for my health right now. But I miss the opportunity to explore meaningful questions with a group of people who want to learn. It strikes me that this is a sacred exercise as we move through this perplexing, frightening, challenging time.

Stay safe, stay home, and stay well. Sending my love to all!
Karen

Oh blog, thou art neglected! (An update)

(Written on Feb. 7th, edited and posted on Feb. 8th, 2020.)

I haven't been writing much here, or sharing much about my day-to-day life on social media... for Reasons.

One reason: I think it might be too boring (?) or alarming (?) for my friends and loved ones if I posted about my health issues, which is a frequent subject of my focus. Suffice it to say: I am still sick, and this means every day, to some extent, I am in pain and experiencing crushing fatigue and brain fog, among other symptoms, and these all make it difficult for me to do normal tasks.

Another reason: did you know that disability insurance companies monitor the social media posts of people who receive benefits, and attempt to use the information therein to declare the person ineligible to receive benefits? (Insert "well isn't that special" gif here, HA.)

But today--my birthday--I wanted to sit down and figure out how to share some thoughts.

The day started out pretty rough--I didn't get enough sleep the past couple nights, and this morning the plumbers came by to replace our water heater. They gave us an estimate yesterday, but because of a change in codes, we needed a different model, and more labor, and we're going to need an electrician to add an outlet... and all of this added up to a really significant unexpected expense. Which freaked me RIGHT OUT.

When I was able to stop panicking, I realized we could pay for it. It wasn't going to interfere with our ability to eat, pay the mortgage, etc. We will be fine! But the panic was so visceral, the worry that this was TROUBLE and we were IN TROUBLE and BAD THINGS were going to happen because all of a sudden this expensive thing was happening in our house. Logic and reason were out of the picture, and all I could feel was DANGER! THREAT!

Luckily, through literally sitting down and breathing, and through talking with Patrick, logic and reason came back, hovered and landed, and the day looked a lot less scary. The sun came out (literally) and made the snow and the ice-coated trees look beautiful. I looked at some art online (about the exhibit "Hearts of Our People: Native Women Artists," which I really, really hope I get to see). I read a little bit in an amazing book (Saeed Jones, How We Fight for Our Lives). And my Mom called and we talked about our ancestors. And then Dexter came home for a brief visit, and we talked about the universe and relativity and memes and our wacky cats. I got a fabulous book, and some slices of cake for after dinner, and my dudes sang Happy Birthday to me, and I got lots of hugs.

(Here's the book: Lynda Barry's Syllabus. I've only read a few pages so far, but it's amazing!)

I made a point of noticing and soaking up the good feelings, telling my animal self: see? We are safe; we are loved; we are well cared for. Everything is okay. And we have lovely hot water that comes right out of the faucets. Miraculous!

(Happy birthday to me! Blue velvet cake with cream cheese frosting
from Fresh Start cafe.
Is it gluten-free? NO. Did it give me a stomach ache? YES.
Totally worth it.)

Somehow, the falling snow today also helped me feel like something was in correct alignment. We always had snow on my birthday when I was growing up (in Maryland). If not snow falling from the sky, there was snow on the ground, beautiful and quiet, clean. The snow today--the first of the season to last more than an hour--felt like a reassurance, a kind of stability. We are safe. We are loved.

(The snow makes everything look lovely. Here's the view from my study window.
It's falling again today--the 8th--like flour coming down from a sifter.)

There is plenty to panic about, every dang day, around here. But also plenty to enjoy, and plenty to be in awe of. I know I am very lucky, in spite of my troubles.

Wishing you peace,
Karen

Health update: loops and spirals

A few days ago, our cat Abby "discovered" one of the toys our cats got for Christmas, thanks to my Mom: a little plastic spiral, simple as can be but apparently Very! Exciting! on a grey winter afternoon. She batted at it, bit it, pushed it and ran after it, jumped over it, and generally made such a commotion that our other cats became curious and started playing with it, too. A good time was had by all! It was funny that the toy had been sitting around for two weeks without the cats noticing it, apparently, and then suddenly it was a Fabulous Thing.

Abby and her new toy. Thanks, Busia!

Around that same time, I got some test results, long awaited, from the Cleveland Clinic: the more accurate (and expensive) bloodwork than the test I had done before showed that I have four tick-borne diseases, including Lyme, and the CC lab also showed that I have four "co-infections" as well. The Lyme spirochetes are floating around in my system, burrowing their spirals into my organs, my brain, my white blood cells and red blood cells, making themselves at home in my body.

Lyme spirochetes, Borrelia burgdorferi
Content Providers(s): CDC [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

I feel validated--in part because I now have labels that I can produce when I tell medical professionals and insurance workers that I am sick and exhausted, that I feel terrible, that I am disabled, that my body struggles with the everyday tasks of being a grown-up human (cooking, showering, working, thinking). I have diagnoses to point to rather than being a medical mystery.

I also feel like my immune system is kind of badass; after all, it took EIGHT infections to take me down! And that's on top of thyroid problems, an autoimmune disease or two, and Epstein-Barr! My body worked really hard for a really long time to operate despite these problems, and it did a damn good job--I have (had) a career, I ran and rode horses and did yoga, I wrote things, I traveled, I learned things, I raised a kid with my partner. My body is amazing!

At the same time, I am feeling a certain level of dread. It's Lyme, after all, which is "controversial" in its diagnosis (one reason it took 3 years for someone to order the more accurate blood test, which insurance does not cover), and in its treatment. (Here's an article that details some of the weirdness of having Lyme. I can also tell you that the closest "Lyme-literate" doctor--someone who has a clue about the latest research, which is changing swiftly--who takes our insurance is a 1.5-hour drive from here. The one closer to us, in Columbus, doesn't take insurance; the first office visit costs about $800, and that's without any treatment or testing.)

It's highly likely--pretty much certain, actually--that my trajectory from ill to well (or at least better) will look nothing like a straight line. I will most likely need to try something, see if it works, try something else, try a combination of things, try again, go into remission, experience a flare-up... Loops and loops of therapies, care-taking, ups and downs, good days and bad days.

I have long loved the image and metaphor of the spiral--coming back around to the point you saw before, but from a new perspective, the past carrying an echo of the present which in turn echoes into the future, like the seasons each year, or like rereading a favorite book. Looping back to a place you've been before, but with new experiences and new knowledge. Dancing a spiral dance and looking into the faces of your beloved friends, winding and unwinding connection and then winding it again.

Fiery spiral
from the blog Ideas on Fire, which looks pretty great...

So today I am wondering how to take in and process this news about the spirals in my body that I will try to expel, and about how to proceed when I can't see around the bend. About how to hope for better times, if not resolution. About how there's no way to go but forward.

May you find peace today,
Karen

Christmas visitation

I'm not sure why I'm posting this blog entry, except that I feel compelled.

The other day I went to a doctor appointment. I sat next to a Christmas tree in the waiting area, and looked around at the wreaths and other decorations as I made my way to the examination room, and then the lab (for a blood draw). One of the office workers had a radio on, tuned to a station playing Christmas carols.

At one point, an older woman walked by; the scent that followed her was delicate, but hit me right in the heart. It told me, in less than the space of a blink, "Grandmom Poremski." A feeling of love swept through me, and I found myself smiling even as the tears started, thinking about holiday traditions at her house--the afternoon dinner, the candy and cookies she made, the visits we'd have at her house with cousins and aunts and uncles. Her smile. The songs she liked at mass.

The Goralski sisters and me on my wedding day:
Aunt Agnes, me, Grandmom (Marie), and Aunt Frances.

I like to believe that our ties with loved ones are not severed, even after death. I like to believe that, in the moment I was reliving those memories, Grandmom was with me--the part of her that nurtured and loved me and planted itself in me bloomed, always there hidden but visible for just a moment.

I hope you have the chance to visit with your loved ones, even if not in person.

Karen

On silence and speaking

A lot of my beloveds turned their profile pictures black yesterday on Facebook. It's a powerful visual signal--black evoking darkness, silence, dread. It reminds me of the photos I've seen of protesters at the Supreme Court the past two weeks, women with black tape over their mouths, veils over their heads, being led away with their hands cuffed behind their backs. (Go here for a photo.)

Living through the news the past few weeks has meant, for me, reliving my experiences of being a high school and college student in the suburbs of D.C. in the 1980s. I am a contemporary of the people testifying before the Senate; their words have brought back so viscerally the atmosphere of power and privilege, the desire to be in the "in" crowd, the necessity of conforming to certain styles of dressing and talking and behaving. Even at my high school--a public school, in the "wrong" county--we mimicked the boat-sailing preppies in their pink Oxford shirts and topsiders.

Or at least I did up until 1980, when I discovered punk rock and decided that if "normal" meant adopting the values of the people in power--the ones that put profit ahead of people, and that brought us to the brink of nuclear annihilation--then I did not want to be normal. I decided, at the beginning of my senior year, to wear black every day. Not necessarily all black, but something black, every day, as a kind of visual protest, a way of saying no without having to say a word.

So I was inclined, at first, toward joining the "blackout" on FB. Early notices said that our black profile pics would be accompanied by our silence--women not posting anything, not explaining anything, just metaphorically disappearing and being replaced by a black spot. But a friend of mine expressed her objection: we have been silenced enough! Why should we silence ourselves? Isn't it men who should be silent now, and listen? Why should we make it easier for them to dismiss us? Her arguments were compelling.

I have a "Me Too" story, though it was only an attempted assault, hardly anything when I think of the pain and terror others have been through. My story involved a requirement to speak, again and again--to the RA on duty in my dorm, to the police officer who was called, to the courtroom full of people listening to my testimony weeks after the incident. Other women in my dorm who had been touched, groped, kissed by this stranger on that same night opted not to come forward--which was absolutely their right. But I was too angry to let it go; I did not think it right that a man could trespass in my home--no matter that it was a residence hall of cinder blocks and linoleum--and put his hands on me and say those nasty things he planned to do to me. If not for my anger, for my insistence that this was wrong, he would have gotten away with it. The process required that I show up and speak, again and again.

My friend's comment also made me think of people who are, in fact, standing up and speaking--screaming, even--to be heard: my beloveds who are Queer and Trans and shouting for someone to pay attention to the ways they are abused and hurt and killed; my Indigenous beloveds whose sisters, mothers, daughters are becoming the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women their deaths going unanswered by our justice systems. And I have learned, now, that some of my beloveds who are men have been assaulted. This is not just about (white) women; there are so many whose voices we have not listened to.

And then I remembered something else from the 1980s: the phrase "SILENCE = DEATH" and the posters of Act Up (the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power), a symbol that reclaimed the pink triangle and black background as they insisted their voices be heard; organizers wrote, "silence about the oppression and annihilation of gay people ... must be broken as a matter of our survival." Silence was literally killing people.

We need something like that for the survivors of assault; we need survivors to be visible, and heard. We need something loud enough to get through to those who are discounting or ignoring the stories of survivors. All the different ways we become prey to hatred and dehumanization are unacceptable. We need to speak, and we need to listen.

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about the stories of the goddess Pele, and how she speaks, exploding with fire, raining down destruction. Lately, I feel less like shutting up, and more like speaking like Pele. We need a cleansing fire to burn away the lies and reveal the truth. And after that, maybe what's left can be the start of something new; maybe when the fire cools we will have a place where new ideas can grow--about what power is, about who is human, about how we treat one another, about what bodies are for.

May you speak today.

Love,
Karen