Please don't yell at me

I mean it.

Don't yell at me.

Don't tell me I don't care enough.

Don't tell me I care too much.

Don't tell me that I don't know or don't understand. It's true that I don't always understand, but at least I'm trying to know.

I know that children are the victims of policies they didn't create and cannot begin to understand. I saw two children, already cleared for immigration, held at the the border (briefly, thank God) when they were 6 and 3. Six. And. Three.

I also know that other people are scared. There were more Islamist extremist attacks in France in the 1990s than there are today. I know all too well that feeling of hypervigilance, that jumping at every unexpected sight and sound. I was there.

I know that we blow apart mountains and poison streams and leave miners to cope with incurable disease, all in the name of prosperity. After all, I live in Appalachia.

I also know how it looks when those in power leave a place to die, take away the only high-paying jobs, put nothing in their place. Remember, I live in Appalachia.

I'm trying to get it, truly I am. It's just that yelling at me doesn't help. It's not driving me further to the left or further to the right. It's not even driving me to the center. It's driving me out of the conversation altogether, and I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.

"Fine," the angry ones might say, "Go."

"Fine," I want to say back, "I will."

There's just one problem: if there is no place for us here, then where?

Things we (shouldn't) take for granted

The other night, we were invited to an awards ceremony at my workplace. We didn't think twice about it until the announcer started listing the participating schools. We realized that many families drove an hour, even two, to a place we see so often that well, we've stopped actually seeing it. As we walked to our car, parked in a nearby lot that only an "insider" would know, I commented that I hadn't realized this would be such a big deal. One of my kids said something like, "that's because it's just always here."

Two days later, our conversation still won't let me go. When did my privileged place in the world become so...I don't know...ordinary? I know that's probably just the dual effect of habit and of time, but still, that doesn't make it okay.

I mean, look at it. This is an American college campus, which are among some of the prettiest spots I've ever seen (and I've seen an awful lot). That this one is full of red brick buildings –a personal favorite– and located in the beautiful Appalachian mountains is the icing on an already delectable cake.

Besides, being here means I get to work with a lot of incredible people. My administration supports me, my colleagues sustain me, my students motivate me to get out of bed each and every day. No, it's not perfect (we all have our dark places), and yes, this Francophile with a Yankee attitude has days where she probably creates more problems than she solves, but hey, that's all part of the adventure.

The best part, though, is that I am getting away with an epic scam. I love languages, especially French. I love to read. I love to write. And by some miracle (okay, a miracle plus a PhD...), I have stumbled into a profession where people will actually put me in a room full of books and pay me do all three. There's even a coffeemaker, for crying out loud! Do I do it perfectly? No. I don't always even do it very well, or at least not as well as I'd like. But I come at it with energy and passion and a constant desire to improve. The result? I feel like I've won the lottery, only better. Unlike plain, cold, hard cash, this the kind of thing that stays with you forever.

So here's to our blessings and our loves. May we never take them for granted again.

Facebook: friend or foe?

Like many, I suspect, I see social media as a double-edged sword. Is it great fun? On its good days, yes. A way to stay in touch, reach out, be informed? Absolutely. But it's also a platform for a lot of posing, not to mention a colossal waste of time. At its worst, it's a disturbingly effective way to spread lies, hate, and fear.

I've written before about this love-hate relationship with social media. A while back, the balance slammed down heavily on the side of "hate" when someone started intentionally using a platform-not-to-be-named to alienate me. Some of you, especially those who know me in the physical world, are probably thinking, "Oh man! As if that would work! I bet you showed them!"

Sorry, but no. Not at all. I wasn't angry, you see. If I'm mad, then heck yeah, I'll come out swinging. Nor was there an actual fight, and even if there had been, I only engage in fights if a) they're worth having and b) I'm pretty sure I can win. I was just hurt. So I did as wounded creatures do: I all but disappeared, from the virtual world, anyway.

Before long, I began to love my Facebook-free world. Aside from this blog, social media disappeared from my search histories, and you still can't find apps for anything but Blogger on my shiny new iPhone. I read more books, drank more coffee, got more sleep. I not only protected my heart, I also ceased being agitated by political and religious drivel from all sides of the aisle. Time not spent online was spent with my kids, my pets, my piano, my pen. Life was good.

Then another shift, another injury, this one terribly physical, terribly real. A little girl from our church suffered a horrific car accident. I started logging in again, anxious for updates, for signs of healing in a life in peril. As the story unfolded and the girl began to get well, I learned that without Facebook, it might have taken far longer for her to be identified and her parents to be found. Social media had, unequivocally, saved the day.

Thus began my quest for balance, for a way to be online with something like mindfulness, or at least a clear sense of intentionality. I limit my time, and I choose my interactions wisely (at least I try!). I only log in if I'm in the mood, and that's not always all that often. If I get hurt, annoyed, or worse, I walk away, but now only until perspective returns. Why bear a grudge for something that exists only on a blue-bordered screen? Social media, like any other experience, is ultimately about how each of us acts, and even more how we react. You can and will find good in the virtual world. Just last night, I was drawn into a Twitter conversation with people who share my passion for changing our treatment of the mentally ill, and came away encouraged. It is surely no accident that this happened on the same day I read Omid Safi's wonderful blog post, "Shine a Light on the Good and the Beautiful." Maybe this post, in some small way, can serve as a response to his call to "stand next to one another, shoulder to shoulder, mirroring the good and the beautiful."

Social media can be anything we want it to be. That is both its curse and its strength. Having a share in building that strength is why I'm back, at least for now.

Think differently, part II

When I moved to Kentucky 15 years ago, I thought I knew a whole lot of things. Among others, I knew that coal was king, but the climate was changing and our addiction to non-renewable energy was driving the massacre of God's creation. Therefore, mining had to go.

Then the stories came, and not just the ones in novels. I listened to the retired miner who reinvented his life, leaving a good chunk of his health underground. I heard the engineer who fights tooth and nail for permits so the crews under her can feed their families. I got to know the security guard who works crazy hours so he can pursue his true vocation of ministry and service to others. Stories like these have turned my tidy, privileged worldview on its head.

Don't get me wrong. Climate change is still real. I believe with all my heart that we should not be blowing the tops off mountains or poisoning our water supply to satisfy our desire for more, more, more. But we need a better plan. You cannot end a chapter as big as coal without making a solid start on the next one. And you certainly can't expect individuals to walk away without giving them a place to go.

There are no satisfactory answers, not even in the 65-plus million dollars meant to create jobs and diversify our mountain economy. It might be a start, but is it enough? Did it get here in time? Why didn't we do that part first, before people got scared and began to lose hope? How can we bring one story to a satisfactory end without destroying the conclusion of so many others?

I wish I knew.

Soul food

At this time last weekend, I was sitting in an armchair, studying the intricate architecture of a tree as I listened to three Kentucky poets share their work. It was definitely one of my favorite parts of a much-needed weekend away from the daily grind. Of course conferences are part and parcel of an academic's work; they just happen to be one I enjoy. Here are five reasons why:

1. Hotel rooms.
Hyatt Place Bowling Green

I bet you didn't see that one coming. After all, academia and poetry exist on a much higher plane, right? Yet we all have times in our lives when we ask nothing more than a clean, quiet space that we don't have to clean ourselves (BTW: tip the hotel housekeeper. She's the reason you get this break!). After all the hectic preparation it takes to get to a conference, coupled with the socializing that takes place once I've arrived, I LOVE coming into the hush of a dimly lit room, turning on the coffee maker, and flopping down on the crisp, white bed. That this room provided the option of a sofa was icing on the cake.

2. The conferences I attend are entirely about words, language, and literature. I have been doing this for more than 20 years and I still feel like I have won the career lottery. If I had known as a child that there was a whole line of work where you could do nothing but talk books with people who share that love, I wouldn't have worried so much about that age-old question, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"

3. I'm good at it. I'm a pretty decent reader, occasionally even insightful. Plus I have the blessing of being able to read in three languages (and the accompanying curse of wishing it were closer to six). I like to talk books, and there are people in the world who actually want to hear what I have to say. The group I was with this weekend was gracious enough to let me have the floor twice, once as a presenter and once as president of the association. Again, I'm pretty sure I won the jackpot when I fell into this line of work!

KPA members and supporters at Lost River Cave

4. Socializing with people who get me. Yes, I am an introvert who gets burned out by too much interaction. At conferences, though, it takes a lot longer before I'm looking for the sanctuary of that quiet hotel. It is refreshing spend time with people who "get" me. We don't think alike -we are, thankfully, way too idiosyncratic for that- but we all share common ground.

5. Conferences feed my wanderlust. Truth be told, I often choose them more by place than by theme. They have taken me from Chattanooga to Chicago, from Frankfort (Kentucky) to Paris (France). I love that the KPA belongs to such a beautiful, diverse state and that I am blessed to call this state home. This time, the aventure du jour was Lost River Cave, an experience that pushed me ever so slightly out of my comfort zone. The ceiling was a little close to the boat for a few seconds, and I'm not a huge fan of tight, dark spaces. Yet much like a book that might get off to a slow or disconcerting start, it was worth it. After all, it's a privilege to travel to strange and beautiful new places, both in the real world and our minds.

Lost River Cave - Entrance

Think differently

I sat across the table, looked at our pastor, and said it again.

"You know I'm the wrong person to ask. We're both way too Lutheran.* Ask the others." Then I sat back and shut my mouth, for a few minutes, anyway.

There was a time I would have not have thought this possible. Indeed, I bet many, when asked to describe me, would say "opinionated" is the understatement of the century! What's more, my comfort zone, like most people's, lies mainly with those who share my thoughts and beliefs.


Yet our comfort zone is not always our best zone. If I stay in my comfort zone, those outside it stay just there, outside. And that is not okay, especially not in a worship setting.  My pastor and I could plan a service that would knock our own socks off, but if it has no meaning for the congregation, what use would that be? Heavenly music is rarely made from two similar voices hitting the exact same note.

I really started learning this fifteen years ago, when I moved to the Bible belt. A liberal Yank if ever there was one, I had two choices. One was to dig in my heels and tell anyone who didn't agree with me where they could go. Not being a fan of lonely defeat, I went for the second option and opened my ears, my mind, and my heart. It has not been always easy, and sometimes I fail on a pretty epic scale, but my life is the richer for it.

On the hardest days, especially in this time of vitriol known as an election year, it helps to realize that those with whom I disagree want the same things I do: love, respect, a better world for our children. It also helps to think about their stories. What is it about their story that brought them to this point? How has my story shaped and guided me? What if, instead of seeing these as competing narratives, we saw them as a counterpoint to which the concluding notes are not yet written?

This has been on my mind this week due to the recent passing of Justice Anthony Scalia. I can see some of you now, especially those who know me outside this blog. You are shaking your heads as you wonder, "our left-leaning, feminist, tree-hugging Northerner is inspired by him?" To which I respond, "yep, sure am." I can't agree with most of his conclusions, but I have to admire how deliberately he thought his way there. I tend to process new perspectives when they cross my path; he went out of his way to make those encounters happen. What if more of us followed that example?

I leave you with this:  just try it. Think differently. You'll be glad you did.

-----
*"too Lutheran" is not meant to be derogatory; it is simply code for two Lutherans who have found a spiritual home in the United Methodist Church

Love is an action verb

So this week-end, the Internet, and presumably everyone else, was all about love.

Or were they?

I'm not trying to be cynical here. It's just that I'm pretty sure that for some, their words were just that, words. A bunch of empty phrases in honor of a saint about whom we don't know as much as we think we do. I have nothing against Valentine's Day, but it always feels to me like an awful lot of people are getting it wrong. I think I've finally figured out why.

Love, to me, is an action verb. It is not a warm fuzzy feeling or an emoji-bedazzled Facebook status or even a dozen roses or a diamond ring. Sure, all of those things can go along with love. And if you happen to be in love, there's a pretty good chance they are part of the package. But make no mistake: they are not love itself.

So in belated honor of Valentine's Day, here is are some things that for me, represent real love, love as action.


...delivering a casserole
...lending a car
...babysitting
...accepting help




...driving the extra mile (or ten... or more...)
...changing a tire
...giving up your bed
...admiring the six hundredth Lego creation

...making gifts of the stories you love
...playing Monopoly when your game is Scrabble
...granting permission for the date
...saying no to the broken curfew





...cheering for the winning goal
...crying over the ball that didn't go in

...sending your children off to school
...welcoming your children back home

...sharing a coffee with friends
...sharing a coffee with a stranger
...picking up the phone
...turning off the phone for real face time




I could keep going, but I think you get the idea. What about you? What are the things that show you love is an action verb?

When so-so movies generate big ideas...

Winter is here. It gets too cold and too dark too early, so I find myself watching a lot of films. Because I am old-fashioned and still watch most movies in theaters or on DVD, I happen to think Redbox is one of the best things ever.

(I know, I know... Who would've said even five years ago that DVDs were old-fashioned?! But that's a topic for another day.)

A couple of weeks ago, a few screen touches and a card swipe at our local kiosk produced Black or White, a family-focused drama with Olivia Spencer and Kevin Costner. I like both actors very much, and the little I knew about the story, namely that it featured a multi-racial family, caught my attention. And with a promo code that gave me movie for free, what did I have to lose? Not much.

Unfortunately, I can't say I gained much either, not as movies go. Overall, I thought it was okay, or, to paraphrase a sister book-club member, "it was a movie I saw," nothing more, nothing less. It certainly didn't meet my expectations, although it did have good moments. In other words, it's the kind of movie one usually forgets.

Note the "usually." There was (is) a scene that just would (will) not leave me alone. Most of the film tries valiantly to explore the complexities of race, class, grief, and substance abuse as they are lived by ordinary people in their everyday lives. It is thought-provoking, if not especially well executed. Then, suddenly, the messy mundanity of existence is interrupted by a violent, near-fatal knife attack. The scene is both unexpected and pivotal. It changes the outcome of the film in ways the viewer (at least this viewer) could not have easily anticipated.

For me, at first, this marred the film. The knife scene felt out of place, as though it belonged in a different movie. Then it hit me: for most of us, daily life may be made up of a series of seemingly small decisions, where melodrama never strikes. Yet no one is immune from those split-second crises when everything changes. I am not just thinking of people working in the Twin Towers, the concert goers at the Bataclan, the shoppers on a busy Beirut street, the guests at a Bamako hotel...  I am thinking of people like you and me. We aren't as far removed as we might like to think. I too have faced close-to-home acts of violence that don't fit neatly into the bookish, small-town life I've endeavored to build. Yet as much as they pain me, they teach me too. Thanks to them, I too have found certain beliefs irrevocably changed and made decisions that previously seemed unfathomable, decisions that meant seeking justice not in a court of law, but in the nurturing of hearts and minds.

I don't know what the moral of the story is. Maybe there isn't one. Or maybe it's simply this: our lives are made up of many parts, and we're meant to embrace them all...even those that don't "fit."

What if...?

What if, instead of giving the screaming kid's family filthy looks or nasty comments, we remembered that our kids were once the ones pitching fits in the middle of Walmart? Maybe then we could offer to help. Or at least an encouraging word. A smile. Something.

What if, instead of ignoring the man with his rattling box of coins, we remembered a time when we had to go without? Then we might go back to the sub shop, get the two-for-one deal, and give one of them away. Heck, we might give both. After all, we know when our next meal is coming.

What if, instead of listening to fear-mongering pundits and "leaders" undeserving of the name, we actually looked into a refugee's eyes? We might see overwhelming fear and loss. We almost might see a spark of something like hope, a spark that we could nurture with our compassion.

photo from The New York Times

What if, instead of seeing those with opposing views as cloven-hooved red beasts with horns and tails, we peeked underneath the mask? Yes, we might find another devil, but we might also find another soul who wants what we do: a world that is safe and happy and prosperous for those we love. We just get caught up in the particulars of how to make that happen.

And what if, rather than nursing grudges against those who have hurt us, we remember that someone surely has hurt them too? Maybe it was even us. Maybe empathy for their pain is the first step in letting go of our own.

All I'm asking is what if we walked a mile in another's shoes? Or ten feet? That may be enough. Or it might take ten miles. However long it takes, just think. What a marvelous gift that would be. 

The Internet of People

There has been a lot of talk lately about the Internet of Things. It's an intriguing concept. But I've been thinking more about what I wanted to call the Internet of People until I found out that this, rather perplexingly, does not refer to human beings but rather to the technological devices they might wear. Silly me. Here I was thinking people and their electronic accessories were entirely different entities. I for one have never confused a person for his Apple Watch...

Anyway. When I think "Internet of people," I am reflecting on what the Web can...and can't...do for human relationships. Note that I said "for" and not "to"– the latter is a subject for another day. Also note that I am not just talking about romantic relationships– those are yet another subject for yet another day. I mean all relationships.

Case in point: I logged onto social media for a few minutes the other day, something I hardly ever do any more. One of my Facebook friends had an entertaining post about his (mis)adventures in the kitchen. I smiled, read a few more posts from other friends, then logged off and went about my day. It was only later that I realized that my smile wasn't so much about the post as about the fact that this is someone from my real, day-to-day life. I know that kitchen, those pots and pans, that home. And thinking about all that is what made me click "like."

At the same time, I have online friends I've never met in real life, yet with whom I also share a lot. I'm thinking especially of my sister warrior moms. We may not have that extra layer created by meeting in person, yet I feel such a strong sense of connection with these women. Are those ties any less valuable just because they were made and might always remain in cyberspace?

And what about this blog? I have no idea how many people actually read it, though I see the page views are climbing. Does it reach people? Do they feel connected? A friend pointed out blogs can feel one-sided. She's right. Not to mention that it's hard to remain true to my voice when there's no dialogue. Maybe people will start commenting here and then the spirit of exchange will come to life. Meanwhile, I'll keep reading every post aloud to be sure I still sound like me.

This brings me to what I see as the biggest Internet relationship conundrum: one's relationship with oneself. As the mother of three teenagers, I am acutely aware of online promises and pitfalls when it comes to self-image. I see people, especially young women, post countless "selfies" in a desperate attempt to establish a sense of, well, self. Sometimes these posts annoy me, but more often, they just make me sad. I want to hug these kids, tell them to look in a mirror instead of a cell phone, and stop setting themselves up to be objects of others' derision or desire. I know they won't listen, but I want to do it all the same.

I guess all my rambling boils down to this: relationships can be built and sustained online. But if, along the way, you lose touch with your truest, best self, then in the end there is no relationship at all.

When The Muffins Win, Everyone Wins

The final horseman of the Apocalypse has arrived: I have been promoted to department chair, and of a brand-new department at that. I am honored, flattered, and... overwhelmed. My main problem? The number of non-spam emails a person can actually receive in one day. They are breeding like rabbits every time I walk away from my computer or phone!

And don't get me started on the pile of paper or the ten thousand other things that seem as though they should have been done yesterday. As for the meetings, I'm still playing ostrich about those. They'll be here soon enough.

Did I say overwhelmed? Feels more like drowning.

Thankfully, I have learned a thing or two over the years. One is that the solution to drowning is not to keep swimming out to deeper water. Instead, find the shore, regain footing if you can, then make a plan. Translated into yesterday, that meant enjoy my coffee first, then meditate and go for a run, all while leaving the phone behind. On purpose.

That done, I performed triage on the electronic rabbit colony and jumped in the shower. Following another round of triage on the only-slightly-less-alarming mountain of paper, I headed out to do a few errands.  As I drove, the cleansing effects of exercise and water began to wear off, replaced by a Pigpenesque cloud of impending doom...I mean email. 

(Huh. Just checked my thesaurus. Apparently "doom" and "email" are not synonyms. Who knew?)

Anyway. When I made my final stop, my friend Jane said, "do you want to come in for a minute? There's muffins." Part of me said, "Muffins? Seriously? No time for baked goods. Not today! Not unless they can occupy my right hand while I write or type with my left."  But a bigger, wiser, and more vocal part could smell muffiny glory and spoke up with an enthusiastic "sure!" The next two hours found us curled up on a couch to share coffee, muffins, and a good old-fashioned chat.

And guess what? After that, it was all good. Yes, the paper and the e-mails were still right where I'd left them. In fact, they'd gone forth and multiplied. Again. But it was fine. I needed to run, to meditate, to shower. And yes, I needed to do the work (which did get done, by the way). But most of all I needed the connection that only a muffin, coffee, and friend can bring. With that, you can take on the world, doomsday rabbits and all.

The Art of Showing Up

Not so long ago I had someone offer what I'm sure she thought was "constructive criticism" on my performance at work, which she had found, well, lacking. I truly believe she meant well, but predictably enough, I got hurt, then mad, and by the time I went home, I was beating myself up over what she'd said.

Admittedly, it has not been my best year since entering the college teaching profession. It might even be one of the worst, given that the whole year has felt like a living illustration of Murphy's law. 

So yeah, it's not been my best year of teaching. I have definitely been distracted, and I hate that, most of all for my students, who deserve better. But it's time to grant myself a little grace too, something I'm just now learning to do. After all, it's pretty obvious that most of this stuff was beyond my control. And...in spite of everything, every time it was even remotely possible, I was there. Maybe I wasn't polished or put together, maybe organization became a distant memory, and maybe I was working off plan B or even C or D, but I showed up. I sat down with my students, and one way or another, we got it done.

It is true that we need people to be there in a real and productive way. We need effective teachers and doctors and people with snowplows and villages to help us raise our kids. But sometimes we just need people to be present. They might not know what to do or how to do it, but they muddle through with us anyway. They sit in hospital rooms, offices, restaurants, cars. They are THERE. Which, as it turns out, is almost always enough. So here's to the art of showing up, the one thing all of us can do.