Failing forward

I've only told a few people, but part of my no-holds-barred, This-Is-Me-bellowing, I'm a hot mess mom move to radically accept myself WHERE I AM AT means no secrets.

It means giving up the illusion of juggling* so much "just so well" and showing everybody that the reality is that I'm not even juggling, I am basically dribbling all the balls I have dropped from the juggling circuit.

*There may be some folks out there that I actually lied to, in effort to save face, saying that I had finished the incompletes. That's embarrassing to admit, and I hate it because it feels like I let my integrity go by doing that, but anyway...celebrating that mistake right now.

You thought this girl was perfect? That's cute.

So without further ado...roughly 10 days ago I rolled my eyes when I saw mail from CSU. I thought it was a reminder of our outstanding balance from Sunny's kidney infection adventure in November, despite just having received an e-statement days before. Nope, it was worse.

It was the Graduate School writing to inform me that my lack of progress in turning my mountain of incompletes to completes had created a string of Fs, thus I have been dismissed from my Master's studies.

Again.

Ten years later, I am in the same sinking boat I was in after Christopher's birth and the ensuing hell I so fondly named Pneumogedden. This degree is never going to happen.

Months ago, as I started to realize my need to bail water out of said boat, I was told by a professor that I was going to have to get my MA "in a way that works for" me.

In other words, the set-up of the program (or, really, higher ed system in general) did not really make space for working professionals, particularly mothers (who are already doing the equivalent of 2.5 FTE jobs in the US - God bless the patriarchy), to attend, participate, and complete the assignments for their classes.

So today I go to meet with the graduate advisor, whom I've never met before, because she was not in that role when I started this program almost 3 years ago (where does the time actually go, folks?) and I don't know what I'm expecting.

Mostly because I am so self-flagellating, so exacting that I have zero grace for myself, I was not expecting the kind words of encouragement and acceptance that she spoke to me.

After we'd talked about several things, including Pneumogedden, an opportunity to work with some state legislators to de-silo child abuse prevention efforts in the state - you know me, I love a great tangent to go off on - she said to me, with her Turkish accented English, "You know, you are MA - this coursework only confirms, but you are already performing like [an] MA."

So basically, they are going to work with me. I'm going to get my assignments done for the classes I've already attended and participated in (just didn't get my papers written for) at the pace I can do, we're changing my advisor, and I'm getting this pro-paper done.

Maybe it will be all wrapped up in time to be a 20th anniversary commemoration of graduating with my first post-secondary degree as a 1st Gen non-traditional student.

The way I roll

Dude....this week has been like....transformative or something.

I think Sunday was a start to regaining my muchness, but when I got my new glasses Tuesday, it was like Frosty getting that magical hat.

I came alive.

I was animated and witty. Competent and productive. Creative juices are like, flowing, man. 

(This is not a put-on dialect, I'm writing it as I would speak it, you know, conversationally? I have an inner valley girl that comes out when I'm happy and excited.)

Seth said I looked like a hot librarian, and you know? I think Heather got her groove back with that boost of confidence, even if incrementally.

That night was a CRAZY BUSY day.

#nofilter

Between sickness, a 3-day training in windowless rooms, and gray weather, February has been a low sun month for me. As a serotonin challenged type, this is no bueno.

As a result of this compound deficit, I've been escaping via carbs, tv/internet and sleep instead of working on the things I ought to be, i.e. school work, family projects, etc.

I don't know who Alicia Cook is,
but that ^ is 100% accurate and
all happened this week.

Moving beyond the knee-jerk - is it possible to overcome identity threat in the age of social media?

Note - the links inside the body of this text are for your enhancement - they elaborate the points at which I'm getting.

So...I'm hesitant to go there, but the past 24 hours of my Facebook feed has pretty much made up my mind.

If you haven't seen or heard about the new Gillette ad from last week, I daresay you either:
a. Actually do live under the proverbial rock
b. Have an existence similar to Helen Keller's in which you are both deaf and blind, or
c. Really don't care

Surprise! We have more in common than you think

Photo by Nuno Antunes on Unsplash
Ring Road of Iceland

"Mom, can you unlock your phone?"

"Why? What?"

"I need to unlock your phone so I can get the singer/song that played last - I liked his sound," Colton insists.

On coming back

It's me sitting in the gray loveseat that swallows me up every time I visit, my left leg tucked under me. I have so much energy and the words, they are flowing. I'm talking and talking, and talking so much. The filler words are not as prevalent because my thoughts are ordered and navigable.

He asks, "So is it incremental, like each day gets a little better, or a more dramatic epiphany of  'OMG, my brain is back?''

"It depends," I shrug. "Sometimes it's both. Sometimes I just fake it - being functional, ignoring the feelings - that I don't even see when it happens or even have an aha, it just becomes. This time though, like whoa, I got so much shit done for my final paper - and it's just like, so amazing because this time last week, I didn't know what I even would write. Hadn't done my lit review, no clear hypothesis of research questions to guide me, and now? I'm almost done. It feels good to be back."

Here we are again.
My fractured friend.
An unraveled heart,
A voice whose art
Is to say, "Come on, just be done"
How many times can this be overcome?

-- thoughts from a broken mind

These Shattered States

"Oh Jesus," I pray upon seeing the news of Santa Fe, heart shattering. "It's happening again."

Nine credits later...

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Or maybe just three.

One completed class out of three total this year. Two incompletes.

But the incomplete is a tool in a grad student's hand, I'm told.

I'm choosing to look at it that way, too, because otherwise, depressed Heather sees it as Exhibit #5967 in the case being argued in the court of my mind that I have lost my Sweary Magdalene™, no-bullshit-high-achieving mojo.

The f*cking prosecuting attorney.

How to do finals, working mom in grad school edition

Channeling my inner Glennon and trying to remember "I can do hard things."

You're in graduate school, so your finals are really just papers / essays. It's a lot of key-pounding and hitting the delete button like the woodpecker when you realize nothing you articulate makes sense.

There are some things you must do for success. ETA: I took 24 hours PTO off to do all of this, because, uh, balance?

1. Leave the house. You'll think, but the kids are at school, no one's home, this will be great!

You will be dead wrong.

Your dogs will think, "Mom's here, so let's go for a walk." You will be hungry and gain 100 pounds because you ate every thing in the house. You will be cold and fuss with the thermostat. You will smell something weird and begin to investigate the source, only to spend your time at home cleaning.

Leave the house - it will be better for all involved. Shower and makeup are completely unnecessary. Brushing your hair is optional.

2. Dress comfortably. Finals writing is intense, yo. I'm seen above in my 2XL Stranger Things, SO SOFT long-sleeved tee that I scored at Target last week for $3, yoga pants that don't hug too tightly and my fave pair of running shoes. I begrudgingly left my blankie at home.

2.a And....I'm all lathered up in Aspercreme because my muscles are aching from sitting at the library hunched over my lap top for 8 straight hours yesterday. See also, feeling like a geriatric admitting that. It hurts, hurts so good to admit my frailty.

3. Adding to 2.a - use the library computers, not your laptop. Because ergonomic chairs make the difference. Marathoners gotta have the right strategy. Select one closer to the bathroom - (the stall bathrooms, not the single user one that smells like butt EVERY TIME) because....

4. Bring ALL the COFFEE. If you don't do coffee, then insert caffeination of choice here, it is NOT optional. You are averaging 4 hours of sleep per night. You may be here far longer than you anticipate. (and you are an adult learner who has pushed 3 humans out of your body, so you see the need for proximity to the facilities)

5. Take SMALL breaks now and then, preferably to stand and stretch and maybe listen to an upbeat song to regain your focus. Do not open up social media and "just see" what's happening. You will be entering the quicksands of time, never to emerge with sufficient time for success

6. Maintain your sense of humor, but channel it appropriately. For the prof that is asking for a class synopsis, sure, insert wit. For the one you owe a research proposal? Not so much.

7. Repeat after me: "There is a light at the end of this tunnel. Just 10 more hours today, then 1 down, 1 to go." Adjust according to your coursework.

I wish I'd snapped a picture of the banner ad the library had running on the kiosks when I came in yesterday - it said:

Make Good Choices

Creative...from the archives

And as they continued to ask him, he stood up and said to them, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.”

I wrote this just over 5 years ago. It has beckoned to me several times over the years. Someday it will be fully developed into a full fledged fictional account of this biblical story.

Mercy's Fool

 She was cold, trembling with shame as the telltale signs of her chill were exposed, visible through the thin linen underdress, the customary sadhin, that she wore.  "Will they punish me and call me a harlot for this as well?" she wondered.  She crossed her arm over her breasts to conceal the evidence of her discomfort.  The men had taken her without allowing her to put her outer robes back on.  Her thin, almost threadbare, sadhin was a woefully inadequate grasp at any remaining shred of modesty she could claim, and offered no protection from their eyes.

Though she suffered the painful awareness of every carnal need her body was crying out for - warmth, food, drink, and sleep - she remained quietly aloof.  She knew the risk of her actions…that she had willfully sinned against the law.  To become hysterical and beg for undeserved mercy would do nothing for her but subject her to further judgment and cruelty.  She was exhausted, but death was certain, and despite her captors' own periodic dozing, she resisted to sleep, reliving the all-too-few memories she had of feeling loved, safe, protected in her life before it would all be taken from her.

Clearly these 'men of God' had no interest in following the letter of Moses' law, or else Nachum would be here with her, he just as guilty as she.  Nachum, her beloved, who had loved her their whole lives, and mourned the day her parents married her off to that horrid old man she now called husband. Nachum, who had tenderly kissed away the bruises left by Jubal.  Nachum, whose scent still lingered on her skin.  Did he know of her plight, and despair, realizing death was unavoidable?  Or, the more cynical side of her wondered, was he sated to have finally known her, relieved to face no consequence?  That thought stole her breath away, striking her heart with a searing pain far more excruciating than any of Jubal's beatings. "No," she pleaded silently with herself, "Nachum is an honorable man."

He had told her that first night that he was prepared to face death with her if they were ever found out, that he would rather die in the sin of loving her than live a righteous life, without her love.  Hot tears slid down her face at the memory leaving wet trails in the dusty floor as they fell.

Yeshua.  Throughout the night, she heard the elders who were awake talking, most of it unintelligible, frantic whispering.  But that name kept presenting itself in their discussions.  "Who is this Yeshua?" she wondered.  "No matter," she eventually decided. "Dawn is approaching and my fate will be sealed soon enough."  As the men were selectively following the law, she wondered if she would even be given the requisite trial before they executed her for her sin....

The story of the woman caught in adultery has been on my mind a lot in recent months.  As illustrated above, I've imagined many different scenarios that could be the back-story to what we read in John 7:53-8:11.  

In addition, I've done quite a bit of reading regarding the story's authenticity, as my Bible has a disclaimer above this passage: [The earliest manuscripts and many other ancient witnesses do not have John 7:53—8:11. A few manuscripts include these verses, wholly or in part, after John 7:36, John 21:25, Luke 21:38 or Luke 24:53.]  

I believe to my core that this passage is authentic because it rings true with Jesus' reactions to the Samaritan woman at the well and that of the sinful woman's washing of his feet with her hair, tears and perfume.  It is a story of love and mercy, which is what Jesus is all about, and has been a go-to passage for me throughout my faith journey because it resonates with me so loudly....