I’m working on gathering the statistical information for the maps that I’m making this week, and I just encountered the image above in a scanned googlebook from the 1870s. It actually gave me the creeps–like those goosebumps that I get on the back of my neck when there’s an odd breeze blowing through an empty room. And it sort of reminds me of the creepy nineteenth-century spiritualist images, too…
PS: The bunny reference has to do with the overabundance of the creatures on this campus. Being very careful of the ones with fangs, I promise!
I am drawn to people with passion and vision. That’s much of the reason that I started my podcast–because I wanted to have conversation with people who share my history-lust. Talking to such people causes me to fall in love with my chosen profession (and the whole entire world, for that matter) all over again.
We humans offer up our dreams, our secrets and our treasures to the sea from whence we came…What is it about the ocean that speaks to us on such a fundamental, profound human level? I have always wanted to know, but my chosen profession, science — skeptical, detached, dispassionate science — wouldn’t allow me to go there.
When I was a graduate student, I tried to weave that big human Love into my dissertation on the relationship between sea turtle ecology and coastal communities. No luck. My advisors steered me to other departments, another career even. “Keep that ’emotional’ stuff out of your science, young man,” they counseled. Emotion wasn’t rational. It wasn’t quantifiable. It wasn’t science…
We must seize this particular moment in time — when the nascent power of neuroscience is burgeoning and the popular momentum is toward conservation rather than exploitation. We can use science to explore and understand the profound and ancient emotional and sensual connections that lead to deeper relationships with the ocean. I believe that if we do that we have an opportunity for real conservation gains that could do some true and lasting good for the ocean and planet Earth.
It’s time to drop the old notions of separation between emotion and science. Emotion is science. Let’s convene the top marine scientists, skilled communicators, dedicated conservationists, and leading neurobiologists and cognitive psychologists to ask and answer the most probing and compelling set of questions about the ocean that we can imagine. Let’s explore the mind-ocean connection — oceanophilia.
His thoughts about oceanophilia echo many other things that are whirling around in my brain this morning. In just a few hours I will abandon all of the tasks on my list and head out for a few hours on my outrigger. To let the ocean tug and push me as she may, while I paddle, paddle, paddle. The connection with the water will stretch and pull me into balance once again.
And at the same time, I’m thinking a lot about my experience yesterday at THATCampSoCal (a tech-humanities un-conference). A primary theme running through the day was how to forge (and control) one’s online identity in a way that will be an asset in the pursuit for a tenure-track job. The hiring and promotion practices for historians are so capricious. One certainly can’t second-guess all that happens behind the scenes in such interactions. While I want to be thoughtful and careful with my online presence, the thought of having an imaginary search committee governing my actions is so much like the way I used to think about Mormon God–the attempt to “please” someone who was so remote and nebulous and judgmental–it had the hair standing up on the back of my neck.
Instead, I want to throw myself into my life. Letting my passion and my curiosity drive my choices and my research. I expect that I will make mistakes. I suspect that I will be accused of “not doing it right.” I suspect that I may never get tenure. But I need poetry and art and sunshine (and moonlight). I need waves that pull and bump and threaten me. I need to tell my stories without worry about how they will affect my job security.
The internet has been my playground for the past decade–just because academia has finally found it, too, I don’t want to lose the immediacy and the thrill of this space.
And, below, another link I just had to share (if only because of my long-time crush on Bill Nye):
This evening a friend dropped by and we shared some tea & scones after dinner. It wasn’t until about after an hour of chatting that I realized that I’ve been so crazy-intensely busy lately that the luxury of having a friend over for a cup of tea simply hasn’t been on my agenda. It’s no wonder, perhaps, that I’ve been waking up in the morning with a tight jaw, after I’ve been dreaming about lists of “To-Do” all night.
So I’m trying to reincorporate some space for peace and relaxation. Adding meditation. Walks. Sitting time in the garden. It won’t be easy with the schedule that I’ve got over the next few weeks, but I know I need to keep the balance in my life. (poetry, I hear you calling my name….)
For those of you who have missed my regular postings here, you might want to drop by History Compass or take a listen to one of my recent podcasts.
Since I started paddling an outrigger canoe through the Newport harbor, I’ve gone under a lot of bridges. I learned, very quickly, that the current around bridges can be unpredictable–even dangerously so. In my small boat if I hit a bridge it means that I’ll likely end up going for an unintentional swim and the blow from hitting a cement pylon can easily cause irreparable damage to my fragile canoe.
As I paddled under a low-lying bridge last week and heard the uncanny echo of water and wind through that space, I realized why trolls always live under bridges in folktales. Bridges are important places–necessary crossroads. But they are also liminal places where danger lurks. It might be in the form of a malintentioned someone hiding in the shadows, or it might be a whirl of current that pulls the boat toward a cement piling encrusted with mussel shells. Whatever the possibilities, bridge-crossings demand heightened attention.
Like the dangers of the bridges that I face as I paddle around segments of the harbor, there seem to be trolls lurking around the bridges of academia, too.
Right now the trolls that I’m facing are the distractions that pull me away from finishing my dissertation–the largest being the specter of the awful job market, but others include my inner perfectionist that needles me with reminders that the dissertation will never be as good as I wanted it to be.
Every morning as I plan my day and make my “To Do” list, I realize that some choices I make keep me on a straight and safe course, while others bring me dangerously close to wrecking my boat as I let the current pull me this way and that. And some days I don’t get anywhere–eschewing the list of daily tasks and paddling around in circles rather than making measurable progress toward my end goal.
Three years ago I outed myself as a blogger–to both the folks in my department and beyond, as I started using my real name online in places that could link back to my identity as a graduate student. Prior to that, my blogging was something that I did on the side, pseudonymously. However, for a variety of reasons, it seemed time to meld my online and real-life identities.
Two years ago I wrote a post on my History blog about the “seduction” of the blogging life, and how it was an asset to my work as a scholar. I explained,
Yet what I find the most seductive about blogging is the continued experimentation. It’s a challenge to find something new to say every day and to find new ways of saying it (especially when my life is just a mundane mix of grad school, parenting, and spiritual seeking–it’s hard to imagine more boring story fodder). So I have to think about how best to ‘hook’ my readers, how to provoke a response, and how to write with such skill that my posts are linked by larger blogs.
Now that I’m addicted to blogging, I wonder how it will affect my professional life. Though I’m a few years from facing the job market, I can’t help my think that search committees might be put-off by my flower photos and rambling observations. Often I vow to stop blogging and focus my time on more legitimate academic pursuits (just think, people, of all the book reviews I could be writing instead of blogging!).
But then I consider this: Blogging lubricates my writing muscles. Pounding out a two-paragraph post during my morning latte primes me for a day of historical inquiry…
Now, I’m finding myself in a place where I’m a bit weary of blogging. Certainly that’s a strange confession in a blogpost! But it seems as though blogging doesn’t carry the same excitement for me that it once did. It might be because I’ve become an avid tweeter, or because I’ve been at this blogwriting gig for nearly a decade and I’ve run out of things to say. Or maybe it’s because I spend so many hours at the computer with my academic work, when I have some moments of discretionary time I want to do something wholly different (like read poetry). Surely it’s a phase that will soon pass. But it feels fairly odd to me right now, knowing how enthusiastically I blogged in years past.
Came across this quotation on a humanist listserv this morning and just had to share:
From Kenneth Burke’s,”The Conversation of History”:
Imagine that you enter a parlor. You come late. When you arrive, others have long preceded you, and they are engaged in a heated discussion, a discussion too heated for them to pause and tell you exactly what it is about. In fact, the discussion had already begun long before any of them got there, so that no one present is qualified to retrace for you all the steps that had gone before. You listen for a while, until you decide that you have caught the tenor of the argument; then you put in your oar [or, your padddle]. Someone answers; you answer him; another comes to your defense; another aligns himself against you, to either the embarrassment or gratification of your opponent, depending upon the quality of your ally’s assistance. However, the discussion is interminable. The hour grows late, you must depart. And you do depart, with the discussion still vigorously in progress.
Kenneth Burke, The Philosophy of Literary Form (1941)
For those of my readers who are interested in my history writing, here’s an excerpt from a recent History Compass post:
I’m a historian because I’m haunted. The words and names from the archives surface in my thoughts and dreams…as I immerse myself in their world, their stories become mine. Am I like a clan storyteller, curating and re-telling the memories from long ago? Or am I merely that eccentric cat lady with no life of her own, her piles of papers and a worn laptop offering ample space for escape from the real world? Though I now sit in an overstuffed chair in my suburban living room with the ambient sound of a lawnmower outside, I am not really here. I am at the sickbed. Hearing a young child’s chest heave and rise, reminding me of my son.
The cough brought our pediatrician running down the hallway. It was the third time I’d brought in my newborn baby out of concern for his stuffy nose and congestion. He had stopped nursing. There was the faintest tinge of blue at the corners of his lips.
Dr. Yu speedily unzipped my son’s pajamas, and placing a stethoscope over his tiny chest and heart. Then stepped back for a moment, watching the labored rise and fall of our son’s breathing, his ribcage dipping down nearly to spine each time he coughed. We all watched. Each intake of air a deep gasp from within his belly. What happened next is a blur of memory, my fear eclipsing exact recall. A rush to the nearest Children’s Hospital and an exam by an infectious disease specialist. Isolation due to the risk of contagion. Learning that our son was infected with a disease that was often fatal, with a name that only faintly registered in my memory: pertussis. As we were to learn later, it’s the “P” part of the DTP immunization that most babies receive at their two month checkup. Our baby was only four weeks old.
The specter in my research today is not pertussis, but a different letter of the vaccination alphabet. The “D” for diphtheria is hovering around my living room as I shuffle through the account of physicians’ failed attempts at treatment. The disease called the “strangling angel” caused leathery membranous wings to grow in the throat, eventually coating the mouth, nasal passages, and windpipe. Its sounds are much like those that I remember from pertussis: the forced breathing that is dreadful, but not as dreadful as the silence. Those long moments when all sound stops.
My travels have kept me so busy this past week, I’ve rarely had time to sit down and write a blogpost. However, I’m tweeting regularly from the road, so feel free to follow me to keep up on my latest adventures.
Being a scholar, an “academic,” allows me to meld my daily life into whatever I study. Even the most mundane of experiences can augment the way that I’m approaching a question or a problem that I’m seeing in my historical work. I see this as an asset, as an important skill that I bring to the table. However, it can also be a bit wearying. I feel the weight of the unfinished dissertation pulling me constantly. It’s always there in the back of my mind, even in my most carefree of moments.
I tend to be very good at “turning off” the dissertation mind on weekends–meaning I can put my work behind me and just enjoy the family or the garden or some solitude. But on weekdays I’m not so good at it. There’s just always more I should be doing, or at least I feel that weighing into my decision-making.
One reason I love being out on the water with my outrigger team is that when I’m handling the boat, I don’t have the mental space for the dissertation. It’s just ‘gone’ for those few hours. There’s a lightness and freedom in that. But as soon as I’m off the ocean, it’s there again.
I’m not complaining. I love my life, I love being engaged in my work. I love graduate school–fiercely, even. But sometimes I wonder how the constant pull & tug of stress makes it difficult for me to enjoy the now and is a barrier to saying YES to today and this moment.
For those of you who’ve taken a similar path, can you offer any advice?
The job prospects for historians are pretty grim these days. I don’t know if all my hard work from the past few years will yield a position when I’m done, but I’m trying not to think too hard about that just yet. I’m just concentrating on enjoying each day of grad school and maximizing the many opportunities that come my way.
The catalysts for our family trip to the East coast were my research in DC-area archives and my attendance at the annual AHA Meeting in NYC–both of which were fantastic experiences. There might not be much money in pursuing a career in history-making, but the travel benefits are terrific. Most of my trips this pastyear have been related to my archival work and I have enjoyed all of them. Some days I pinch myself even as I wonder how I could be so fortunate.
