pack up all my cares and woe

Generally speaking, the thought of travel intimidates me. Everyone will know I don't belong! Still, there are a few places that have so thoroughly captured my imagination that one day, when I can, I will rouse myself and leave my cozy little nest:

Iceland.
Iceland remains at the top of my list. I'm half in love with it, really. All that cold and snow and dark; those mountains and geysers and volcanoes. And it's an island.

Venice.
I think it may have been Jeanette Winterson's The Passion that first fueled my desire for Venice. But I must see it before it disappears.

Maine.
I am sensing a water theme here. And a strong desire for ice.

recent miracles

1. Just before I was to defend my dissertation, my hair dryer started acting funny. First, it would work so long as I plugged it in anywhere but the bathroom. After that, one by one, it stopped working in all the other sockets throughout the apartment. The week after I defended the dissertation, Aldi had hair dryers as a "special buy" for only fifteen dollars. I bought one and set it aside until the old hair dryer died completely. The next day I found that the hair dryer had died completely, having lasted just until the day I was able to get a new one.

2. Tenants in my building often leave unwanted items in the corner of the east stairwell near the entrance to the first floor. The other day there were, among other things, a perfect 6-cup muffin pan and a pristine, glass 9x13 baking dish. I have never had a full-size 9x13 baking dish (mine is shallow), and here was one, free, that even suited my aesthetic tastes.

3. The other day was one of those ominous, late-summer, oppressively muggy days. All day the air was thick, nearly viscous. Just after noon, the temperature dropped so that the city swam in damp, swirling fog; I stood on an el platform in the middle of that sticky, cool fog. Rain was clearly imminent and I wondered whether it would hold off until I got home. Just as I walked in the door, the rain started. Within five minutes of my safe arrival home, the sky was as dark as dusk and the rain came down in torrents.

On waiting for barbarians; meditation on three poems by C. P. Cavafy

The semester begins today. I will teach four regular classes this term--for the first time I will teach in a regular semester. The past week or so I have been restless. Concentration and preparation have been either difficult or impossible to come by. Instead of working diligently (even with rests) to prepare for what will be a challenging term, I have been waiting for the barbarians.

Why isn’t anything happening in the senate?
Why do the senators sit there without legislating?

            Because the barbarians are coming today.
            What laws can the senators make now?
            Once the barbarians are here, they’ll do the legislating.

I've been waiting for something to happen, something external. Then, when that something happens, I will have to respond to that, so I really ought to save my time, energy, and attention for that. Waiting is clearly the prudent choice.

Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people’s faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?

            Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
            And some who have just returned from the border say
            there are no barbarians any longer.
 
And now, what’s going to happen to us without barbarians?
They were, those people, a kind of solution. 

This waiting has been itself a kind of response, a way of shaping the present and the future. Why do I forget this? Why am I waiting for barbarians when I could become an Antony?

As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who proved worthy of this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

One does not prove oneself worthy of, say, an Alexandria, or even, especially, of an Ithaka, by waiting anxiously for barbarians who may never arrive.  

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

 With Ithaka on my mind and Alexandria in my heart, what can barbarians do to me or for me? 

learning from previous selves

A little more than six years ago, I wrote this (lightly edited) meditation on Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body:

And so here is the humbling bit, for the narrator and for every reader who identifies with the narrator: for Louise (and any and all of our beloveds), it might not be worth it to be saved if the salvation does not include the beloved. Can we ever believe that we might be valued so highly by the one we love? Is it selfish when we want to so believe, or if we want to be so loved?

We are not to love the beloved more than God—that is blasphemy. We are not to love the beloved more than ourselves—that is antiquated and un-feminist. We are not to love the beloved more than our career, our children, our friends, our lives. What, then, is so beloved about the beloved?

We are supposed to love properly, efficiently, moderately—no blistering-hot, full-to-the-neck baths for us, but tepid 5-minute, water-saver showers. Turn off the water when you soap and when you shave. 

No longer may we lavishly love: it is wartime and to ration our passion is a virtue. We must be economical. The heart is too precious for everyday consumption, we must enjoy our diet of corn flakes, graham flour, and winter savory.

No more blistering inferno, gone the dazzling sun; we've left the chemist's lab, we dare not even glance at the crucible wherein our hearts could fuse (and alchemy is so out of style). Sunglasses are our most popular accessory—can I get SPF 3000 for my heart?

I'd forgotten I used to write like this sometimes. I still remember the physical and emotional sensations of writing this: the focus and single-mindedness; the high, thin, thrumming thread of energy stretching from my self to the page. I wonder if I can do this again—think and write for just the joy of it.

letters I have not written

Dear C,

Thank you for sending me your teaching philosophy and within mere minutes of my request! I promised you a letter back in March (March! How has this year flown!) and now you've moved and I no longer have your address. And even though I have not kept my word, if you've held it against me, I haven't known. Thank you.
—k

Dear J,

You are a radiant angel for sending me your teaching statement and for offering dozens of comments on several versions of my own teaching statement and CV. You've always been such an excellent editor of my work, and you've always made it easy for me to send ugly raw stuff your way. I promised you a letter as a reward and I am so sorry for not having done so. However unspoken, my gratitude and admiration have been very real.
—k

Dear S,

How is it that I have not sent any response to the gorgeous card you sent me on the occasion of the new year? Oh, I am ashamed! It seems it has been quite a year for both of us—the evidence of social media would suggest there is a new love in your life? I am so happy for you, friend. I am so excited for you. I'd love to hear more. And tell me more about how your family is doing. I have been praying for all of you.
—k
 
Dear J,

However far apart we live and however different the shapes of our lives, I am so glad that we are still in touch and that I still can call you friend. I told you some months ago that I wanted to get to know grown-up you better than I do. I still do! I admit, I do let myself feel intimidated by my friends who are partnered and have children—I always worry that I am intruding. More shamefully—I see my life as so utterly decadent and selfish by comparison. You must so arrange your life that loving and caring for other people is always your first priority. I don't do that and nothing pushes me to do so, and so I judge myself in order to save you the trouble. I am sorry for that. I will trust you more. And thank you for your prayers recently. That has been so nice. 
—k

Dear M,

Whenever I think of you, I delight in your friendship. You are so generous with your affection and with your forgiveness and still your standards are high and admirable. I admire you. So why is it I put off writing to you? Foolish me! But still lucky me because I will get to see you again soon and we will get to catch up and laugh—every time I see you, my face hurts for hours from all the laughter we share. I am so glad you return to Chicago a few times each year. Looking forward to laughing with you soon— 
—k