Falling Behind

 Tonight some friends and I were lamenting together about the amount of work we've accumulated in the end of the term. The majority of it comes from classes that assigned us weekly journals or mini-projects. These assignments had vague due dates and an expectation (poor optimistic professors!) that students could be self-motivated enough to budget out our work time and actually DO four or so short essays a week instead of taking the procrastination approach of: "Oh, they're not due right this second, so I'll get to it when I have to." Trouble is, all this putting off has now doomed each of us to the snowball effect--literally dozens of essays, journals, and projects due in the next week and a half. It's insanity.


I know I'm not the greatest student when it comes to doing things last minute. Every year starts with the same thought--this time will be different! This time I'll be on top of all my deadlines and save myself the stress of all-nighters and caffeine hazes! ...yeah...that never happens. I've actually started to wonder if the only way I can pull off a decent research paper is if it's done during the wee hours of the morning, precious hours before class. (My professors would probably disagree).

Anyway, in addition to being poor with time-management I have a tendency to be in my own world during class, filling my notebooks with poetry, doodles, and random musings. I came across this "gem" from last Spring semester and was a little surprised at how it still rings true today. Apparently old habits die hard:

I was minding my own business, chowing down on my B.L.T. and chips with gusto—my cell phone face up on the table awaiting a reply text message and my backpack sealed shut in its Velcro lining. I opened my Naked juice and listened to the patter of voices around me, warping and blending softly together like the patter of rain that fell last night as I dozed. They were talking about the exam next Friday, the one I hadn’t begun studying for yet. I bit into my sandwich and vaguely pondered on the nearly ten chapters I was behind on, the notes and study guides I’d have to begin all too soon. Violently I shrugged these thoughts away and turned to more interesting cues: the buzz of my cell phone.

            It was at this moment that the girl slipped into the room, purple folder clutched tightly to her chest and walking swiftly to the back of the room. She was one of dozens of prospective new students scoping out classrooms for next fall, and her first view of ours? Me furiously texting with one hand and cramming greasy food in my face with the other. A far cry from how I imagined college classrooms in my prospective days—neat stacks of notes, pens moving furiously across the vast expanse of lined paper as the professors poured delicious truths and discussions into the souls of their students.

            Guiltily, I put my sandwich down and took my notebook out, trying to focus on the professor’s words. Yet his marvelous lectures dissolved in disjointed, slurred sentences with all the meaning wrung out of them. “Neo-classical hegemony…discourse…appropriation…substantiation…”

            Too many syllables with too many trains of thought. I only had one train, and it was stalled at the station. When did I become such a terrible student? When did I stop caring about literary theory? Or any of my classes?

            But I know when. I know the exact moment. It began with the decision to skip one reading, and miss one class, and choose sleep over homework. It snowballed into more skipped readings and more missed classes and an increased shift in priorities until the knot of apathy so innocently thread grew its own heads and marched forward, trampling on assignments; steamrolling work ethic. Until I became this: She Who Sleeps Through Lectures. She Who Puts Off All Projects Until the Night Before. She Who Doodles On Every Page of Notes, Recycles All Her Readings Untouched, and Spends Hours Writing Nonsense That No One Reads. 

I guess I can add one more title to the list from months ago: She Who Doesn't Learn Her Lesson. 

*image of our cat, Tiamat, "helping" me with homework*

Prove It

"You don't know you're beautiful

that's what makes you beautiful"

--One Direction

"She doesn't know that she's an angel in disguise

she doesn't know that we see heaven in her eyes

she doesn't know that she's alright

she might've been blinded by the light

of all the good that she does, but she doesn't know"

--Michael McLean

Of all the characteristics of people that we tend to admire in life, one of the most frustratingly endearing is humility. You know the kind: the parents who run themselves ragged providing for their families, juggling a thousand things on a to-do list that always places themselves dead last. The nine-to-fivers working the most unpleasant jobs because, well, someone has to. The people who just seem to give and give until there's nothing left and still find a way to count their blessings. The people who don't know they're beautiful, and beautiful in the sense that emanates from the inside first. It's maddening sometimes, to see these people and admire them, to wish to be like them, to constantly fall short of their natural altruism and sometimes hate them for it, to love them with all your heart and still hear them say I'm not worthwhile.

Over and over I've seen this play out--someone that I love and look up to incapable of seeing in themselves what is so clear to the rest of us. And it seems the harder you try to recognize them and show them a mirror of their accomplishments, the more their ears seem to deafen, their eyes turn downwards. Show them anything but this: their own worth. The only thing more heartbreaking than their selfless attitudes is their self-hatred, a never-ceasing attack from the inside out, the demons that whisper it's not true. You're not a good person. "You think I'm worth something?" these individuals may respond to the world at large, "then prove it."

Someone very important to me told me this recently, and at the time it hit me like a physical blow to the heart. I was furious. I was devastated. I wish I could have taken them by the shoulders and shaken sense into them. In the last few years of knowing this individual all I could see was beauty. Someone who shone from the inside-out, with a level of kindness and integrity that few of us ever witness. But their demons were louder than I ever was, and I ended up feeling like a failure.

Throughout college I've been told that if you want to enter the field of counseling, you have to make your own healing a priority. If you can't give to yourself, how will you have something to give to others? For someone with plenty of demons of her own, this is my own hardest task. To figure out how to give myself a fraction of worth--to say I'm not a bad person or a good person, I'm just me. And "me" is worthwhile. I'm beginning to see that this is one of the most pressing issues of our time. Depression and lack of self-esteem is rampant, squashing the confidence out of future leaders, future defenders, and future healers. How do you fight back? How do you replace the demons with reality?

Last weekend I took part in a "Rake Up Caldwell" project where teams of students set out to clean up houses with yards in major need of raking. Afterwards we were going to go to a pancake breakfast, put on by another organization on campus. After my team had finished our list we raced back to the college, the taste of imagined pancakes spurring us on. Our advisor stopped us in the parking lot with the news that one of the other teams was still on their first house, and we needed to go back out there and help them finish. Right as she spoke, it started to pour rain. We all looked at each other, heaved a sigh, and delayed the pancake feast to rake up two more houses. We found ourselves cursing at the sky out of frustration (not very charitable of us, but hey, it was the weekend before break and we were cranky) and then a member of my team said: "I wish there was a way to just put all the leaves back up in the trees." 

Many times I've reflected on this comment. The proposal itself is futile--we could no sooner put the leaves back in the trees than silence the demons in ourselves. But that's the point. We can't prove anyone's worth but our own. You fight back by giving the ones you love all the support you can, and then hoping that someday they have the foresight and the strength to prove to themselves what we knew all along. You are worth it. You are worth it all.

*images by me at the College of Idaho*

Impressions

 



If I've learned anything at college (and we can only pray I have) I've learned that our impressions of others should never, ever be immovable. We've all heard the cliche: "Don't judge a book by its cover," but this idea goes well beyond mere physical appearance, although too often we find ourselves judging others on this shallow level. Again and again people have surprised me and overturned all of my assumptions, either about a certain group or a certain mindset or just general personalities that I'd written off as "jerk" or "weird" or "intimidating."

Examples: there are two young men who have volunteered a lot with Food Bank for the first time this year that I'd never had much contact with before, and through several hours of conversation with them in one of our campus vans my eyes have been opened to their lives in ways I'd never thought to look before. I have been continually impressed with their compassionate points of view and surprised by the intensity with which they live their lives, when before I just assumed they were quiet because they were shy or had nothing to say. Maybe this is because service tends to bring out the best in others, or because those who travel together tend to connect to avoid awkward silences, but in any case I am grateful for weekly exercise in keeping my impressions open.

A couple weeks ago my literature class invited us to write on the subject of race and culture--all of the little things that make us who we are. The topic touched a nerve with each of us and when it came time to share our essays there was a shocking amount of emotion, ranging from anger to confusion to tears. I got to know each of my classmates that day in a deep and personal way, that in many ways increased my respect and appreciation for all of them. Writing has a way of doing this--of opening doors and windows to the soul that few other mediums can. How many times have I felt that metaphorical punch in the gut, that wrenching of my heart, for someone in my class as I read their poetry, or personal essay, or listened to them sing, or improvise a riff in jazz class, or glanced through their sketchbook. This is an incredibly talented campus, and I'm so grateful to be here and to be part of this exchange of hearts!

I'm grateful as well to all of those who have allowed their impression of me to be flexible as I've grown up. I've gone through so many phases, from the rebellious child and the flighty hippy to the severely depressed and back up to whatever it is I am now (I'd like to think, somewhere in the realm of healthy and whole again). I realize that I've been difficult to get close to these last three years, and at times this was on purpose. Freshmen year I transformed from the optimistic, cheerful and friendly girl into a kind of hermit, frequently staying silent when I wanted to speak and avoiding social situations. I'm not good with confrontation. I've played the martyr for years, overwhelmed with depression and anxiety and other things that should have made me reach out for human connection, but instead my defense mechanism kicked in and I chose to run. I didn't want others to see me crack, and in doing so I think I offended many of you by closing my communication with you. As a result I've lost a few friends, which was painful but important, as it taught me just how many people cared and how important it is to maintain close relationships.

Now I'm seeing the light. Thanks to many of you who saw my cracks and helped me put myself back together I am happier, I am significantly more "chilled out," and I'm more at peace with myself and the world around me. I don't run from social situations anymore. I'm better at public speaking and introducing myself to strangers. I'm better at talking about the things that suck to talk about, and doing it in a healthy way that doesn't bring me down into a "funk." In short, I've done some growing up. And I've got much, much more growing to do before I'm done.

Thank you for your patience. Thank you for your support. Thank you for not writing me off! And to those who still feel awkward around me, who don't know exactly how to talk to the girl who last year was a moody mess, (yes you, I see you!) I invite you to meet me again. There is not a soul on this earth who stays the same from one day to the next. We are all nothing less and nothing more than the moments and the trials that shape us, and these moments are constantly changing.

*image by Google*

The Mind-Body Connection

When the mind is sick, the body follows suit.

Never in my life has this been more clear. This last week has been one of those rare "theme" weeks at school--where the majority of my classes accidentally and serendipitously collided in subject matter, leading me to wonder if all my professors didn't get together over the weekend and plot their material out over drinks. Besides the upcoming presidential election, my professors have shared one important idea: the health of the mind infinitely and strangely connects to the health of the body.

It started with my Abnormal Psychology class and researching anxiety disorders for a group project due next week. Things slowly began clicking into place and I found myself viewing my life with new eyes. My trip to the emergency room last spring, for example. I am now convinced that the chest pain and difficulty breathing I experienced then, which the doctors couldn't explain or provide evidence for, was nothing more or less than an intense panic attack. (I had experienced panic attacks before, but haven't had any attacks as serious as the E.R. one before or after this incident). As I read about panic disorders, agoraphobia, and general anxiety disorder (G.A.D.) I was reminded strongly of the times when my stress level skyrocketed due to school, work, or relationship pressures and I suffered physical repercussions (getting Shingles--a phenomenon more common to 60-year-olds, my immune system crashing, infections, insomnia, depression, gray hairs, and general fatigue, to name a few) that might have been avoided or reduced significantly had I learned to control for the stressors in my life.

Tonight a group in my psych class did a presentation on somatoform disorders, including hypochondria disorder and conversion disorder, all of which are physical manifestations of psychological distress. We watched videos of individuals who experience seizures or constant pain, real or imagined, to reflect in an outward way the damage being done on the inside. Many of these disorders are paired with anxiety, depression, behavioral problems, and abuse. This makes it not only difficult to diagnose but difficult to treat, as incredible damage control is needed when a patient is told that their chronic pain or condition is "all in their head."

My Zen class focused on an article by Paula Arai which spoke of therapeutic techniques to help individuals heal, particularly after trauma. The article includes a list of "Ten Principles in the Way of Healing," and number two on that list reads: "living body-mind." Arai writes

The women in this study view the mind and body as one, a fundamental assumption of their worldview. It is so "normal" to them it did not seem to warrant mention. Yet, this view of the body-mind as one is a significant component of their healing paradigm because it explains how they can turn to chanting and prayer in the face of terminal illness and believe those activities will help them heal. By not bifurcating the resources available to a person, they find avenues of healing that no allopathic doctor would prescribe: holding a rock that has the word "OK" painted on it as they are transported into surgery...(etc.)

Even my archery class joined in the spontaneous stream of cross-subject contemplation. Over and over my instructor reminded us to make the bow a part of our arm and the arrow's aim a part of our vision, connecting mind and body to be "one" with the sport we were engaging in.

I think, subconsciously at least, I always knew that this connection was significant. I just never realized how significant until I ended up in the E.R. All of the most difficult parts of my life have been the ones punctuated with an urgent need to meet unrealistic expectations: I hope that they like me...I want to get this part perfect...I don't want to look foolish (that one is big for me, and the reason that I don't ever dance in public or do well with confrontation)...What if I mess up this presentation/job interview/(insert your own stressful social situation)?

These anxieties are always paired with an incredibly harmful sense of dread or despair if I fall short of my own expectations. Over the last two years I have been engaging in the pursuit of peace of mind, of finding a healthier mindset--of generally "chilling out." Without knowing that my body was reacting to my problems with anxiety, I have been training myself to be flexible with my responses to difficult situations. And, to an extent, I think I've been successful. (I didn't, for example, have a panic attack when I saw a midterm grade of C- like I might have two years ago. I also didn't shake or feel light-headed during a recent presentation, which is improvement).

The moral of the story, folks, is to be kind to your mind. The longer you stew in regrets or unreasonable guilt, or set unrealistic expectations for yourself, or allow yourself to sink into depression, anxiety, or anger--the more your body and overall health will decline. You'll grin and bear it and pretend to be strong, but over time that stress will wear you down and affect your daily life.

Keep the mind engaged, think positively, engage in things you enjoy, surround yourself with support, and above all, stay healthy. Your body will thank you for it later.

Link to Paula Arai's article: http://muse.jhu.edu/books/9780824860134
*image taken by me, altered by BeFunky Photo Effects online*

Trying to Be Zen

Every time I see a spider now, my first instinct is not to run, or scream, or beg the closest male to get a shoe and squash the living heck out of it. The instinct is to get a cup or piece of paper, scoop it up, and carry it outside to battle for its life on its own terms. Is this Zen?

I look to the leaves tumbling around me each morning and think back to a poem our religion professor shared with us about the way falling leaves show their front and back side as they twirl to the ground. We should all be like leaves, she said, and show all our sides in our lifetime. Is this Zen?

My downstairs neighbors don't know how to maintain a reasonable volume on their obnoxiously bass-heavy rave music, and even though it vibrates through the floor and interrupts my study and sleep, I try to show patience. I try not to stomp on the floor in irritation too often. I try not to climb down the staircase to knock on their door and request a lower decibel unless the alternative is shooting someone. I try, in short, to tolerate the noise and just observe it instead of letting it dominate my day. Is this Zen?

Recently I lost a very good friend, and I forced myself to hold on to that friendship with an "open palm" so that it wouldn't be so hard and I wouldn't be so attached. Is THAT Zen?

I signed up for this Zen course at my school for three reasons: it was a natural continuation from the introduction to Buddhism course I took a year and a half ago, I love the professor, and I frankly thought some "peace and calm" would do me good. To my inexperienced mind "peace" and "calm" were synonymous with the practice of Zen. Boy was I wrong...

Zen is actually not meant to be peaceful. Every piece of literature on the subject is meant to stir up your mind to confusion, to increase anxiety, to further frustration, and in short, to make you think, harder than you've ever thought before. (Just read one passage from Nagarjuna and you'll know what I mean!) The class so far has been about seeing the world and yourself in new ways, with the ultimate goal of shocking you, even for a moment, out of your very attached, very emotional, human state of mind.

I have often thought that it would be very frustrating to be a monk, because almost every question that a Buddhist monk asks of a Master is answered with snark--often, for the purpose of making the monk realize their question was pretty stupid to begin with. For example, one monk famously asked his Monastic Master whether or not dogs have Buddhist nature. The Master replied, simply: "No." The monk was surprised at the direct answer and had to ponder it in a new way, finally coming to the conclusion that his question was flawed. It showed attachment to the dog and the Buddhist nature as two separate things, rather than one, connected entity. He did not understand Emptiness.

Emptiness is pretty key to Zen, and we practice considering it each day in class as we look at our various attachments and break them down into non-dualities. (For example, "hot" and "cold" are actually very relative qualifications for temperature, as they depend entirely on the environment felt beforehand to exist. Someone could walk into a room and consider it warm compared to outside, while someone else considers it cold after getting too used to the air vents--even though the thermometer remains at 60 the whole time.) Emptiness can make you feel pretty... well... empty if you think on it too hard. You lose your identity and sense of fulfillment, of purpose even, and that's hard to take for a young college student eager to make her mark on the world.

I guess the greatest thing I've taken from Zen so far is toleration. I'm a lot more tolerant and self-aware than I used to be. Whenever someone or something is really irritating to me (like the music shaking my desk at this moment or the spider that drops in for a visit) I can keep myself together, remind myself that there is much more to life than insects and neighbors, and get back to living. I'm also slowly learning to appreciate confusion. Not only is it good to be confused, it's essential. This election, for example, has made the whole country confused. And yet allowing that confusion to open me up to research on the candidates has allowed me to choose who I'm voting for with an open mind.

It is good now and then to slow down and see things without the self in the way. I can't really tell you what this class has done to me yet--I guess it's too soon to say. But it has definitely made me a healthier, more conscious person, and for that I am grateful.

*image by me, on campus*