The Meaning of Life and Other Minor Details: Practicing Mindfulness After Fifty

...when you are doing any other kind of writing (like on a fun blog, for example), you feel guilty that you aren't doing academic (i.e., real) writing.

Somebody I used to know once told me she thought happiness was overrated. I've thought about that statement for going on a dozen years now, and I think she was wrong. Well, I think she was talking about pleasure, about following one's desire, about gratification--and all of these are different from happiness. Not only is happiness not overrated, I don't believe it is rated nearly highly enough on our collective list of priorities. I was recently on a long, 9-hour drive from Atlanta to South Florida when I began running through my usual thoughts: money, work, goals, writing, weight. I was even running scripts through my mind of events that I envisioned happening so that I would have a ready response. For example, I pictured a scenario in which my boss asks me to assume additional duties at work. I was amazing myself at my sardonic, pointed remarks to her. Then I thought to myself, "I have a 9-hour drive and I am going to sit here and make myself miserable the whole tim

It's the little things, you know, that will drive you crazy. Big things, I can set my feet, and confront. But the little things can gnaw at you and before you know it, you are whipped. Take, for example, dog poop. Or, to be more precise, owners who do not clean up dog poop. I live in an apartment complex--not acres and acres of land where dogs are free to "go" where they will. Apartment complex grounds have limited green space--green space I would prefer not to see filled with "brown" matter. I am trying to be as delicate as I can here, and I do realize that one has to stoop pretty low to have a burning desire to discuss this subject. And yet here it is. I pick up after my dog Duncan. I walk him half a dozen times a day, ever grateful that as he gets older, he can go longer with out "going." So every day, six times a day, we make the huge block of our complex as he prepares to "do his job." Almost invariably, he is moved unto action on the fi

Since I decided that my next project would be a place study on my Country South by storying my great-grandmother Jeffreys' life, I've been doing a lot of reading about Alabama, my state. One book, Dixie's Forgotten People, by Alabama native and Auburn professor (I can forgive him for that) Wayne Flint, is what I would call an objective account of Alabama's poor whites. He talks about both their rich culture and the racist thoughts and acts. I learned a lot from Flint's book--like my people were most likely southern Appalachian--a particular kind of "Southerner," having a whole unique heritage. I had always thought of Appalachian people as being from the mountains of West Virginia or East Tennessee, but these are my people. I am theirs. Another book I picked up was Alabama Getaway by Allen Tullos. He is an American Studies scholar who exhorts Alabama to distance itself from its "Heart of Dixie" brand name. For him, this monicker is code for nostal

Coastal areas with their sea turtle preserves have nothing on red clay states like Georgia and Alabama. Yesterday morning I was walking Duncan. The sky was just a little lighter than the gray of the asphalt paving of my apartment complex. It was warm for a January morning, and the rain had just stopped. As we made our way around the buildings, one sniff at a time, I began to notice earthworms. I will always notice a worm. I invariably think back to when I was a kid we would go digging for worms to take fishing. Back then, I almost never found any, so whenever I see them now, I notice. These were perfect conditions for them to come out of their dirt to...well, to do whatever it is that earthworms do. Except, I think ideally, they would come out of their dirt to explore more dirt--not pavement. I noted to Duncan, who was mostly ambivalent, that there sure were a lot of worms out. We turned a corner and sidestepped a large puddle under a cypress tree, when I looked out into the street bet

I would bet money that the "oldest (writing assignment) trick in the world" was invented by a high school boy. The kind that ends up a radio show morning dj who, along with one or two other sidekicks--including a woman who is usually the brunt of the sexual joking--fills the a.m. work traffic airwaves with inside jokes and guffaws. I avoid morning radio shows (Rick and Bubba in the Morning, a favorite of my 21 year-old son, which proves my point) at all costs. But in case your're wondering, I am not a radical public radio snob either, like some of my egghead friends. I don't need my head hurting from either end of the spectrum in the morning. I send them some money every now and then, though, just to annoy the Republicans. Anyway, you know the kid I'm talking about.  This kid would invariably appear in my Junior English class, where I taught from 1987-2001, and submit a major essay assignment with entitled, "Writing an Essay for Mrs. Hyde's (that was me t

I don't know whether to laugh out loud or rage loudly when someone--usually my dad or daughter, who share political views--parrots the far right Glen Beck propaganda that teachers make millions of dollars over our lifetimes and, with the underhanded workings of powerful teacher unions, have more millions of benefits. If only teachers' egregious salaries could be reigned in, perhaps we would turn our hearts and minds to educating the country's rosy-cheeked young. Greedy teachers would then no longer be the ruination of the economy. My daughter actually said to me that Big Education was as bad as Big Oil. But I could hardly hear her over the roar of the engine of my private jet. I am a professor--a poor one. Not all of us are created equal. Salary is often based on your discipline. The more "marketable" you would be in the real world, the higher your salary at a university. For example, since presumably a marketing major in the corporate world would make significant

I remember when Tim Tebow played for Urban Meyer at UF. As Tide fans, my family and I spent hours of quality time discussing the overratedness of the young quarterback. We speculated at how much of the hype was brought about by Coach Meyer's public affection and admiration for him. Watching Tebow and the Gators throughout the season, we were sure that he was pretty much all Florida had offensively. Devoted Bama fans, we were also sure that Coach Nick Saban drew that same conclusion and would therefore shut Tebow down and win the 2009 SEC championship game. Which was exactly what happened. Tim Tebow had seemed to be the Florida offensive strategy. My family fairly scoffed at the site of him sobbing after the game. We had been right all along.  And then came Denver. I don't follow pro football like I do SEC college football, so I only understand the basics, which I am interpreting loosely. Tebow was drafted by the Broncos, but did not make starting QB. After a 1-4 start to the