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

**Note: This post is a devotional written for a congregational newsletter. I'm putting it here as a repository. So if this kind of writing isn't particularly your thing, hang around, I'll be back as the reprobate soon. Psalms 27:6-7 Then my head will be exalted      above the enemies who surround me; at his sacred tent I will sacrifice   with shouts of joy;      I will sing   and make music   to the   Lord . 7  Hear my voice   when I call,   Lord ;      be merciful to me and answer me. Dietrich Bonhoeffer and the Prayerbook of the Bible In 1940 Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote an 84-page meditation on the Psalms called Prayerbook of the Bible , in which he explains the importance of the Psalms for Christian prayer. I can’t think of Psalms now without thinking of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who wrote concerning them, “Along these lines the Holy Scriptures tell us that the first thought and the first word of the day belong to God.” Actually, I’ve revised it a bit and say it as a prayer: “L

The blessing and curse of being an academic is that whenever I come across any really interesting "thing"--whether it is an experience, a news story, situation, work of art, or take on the human condition--my first thought is, "Wow, that would make a great paper!" I wonder if my other egghead friends do that. It isn't all bad; the blessing is that clearly there will never be a shortage of topics to write about. The curse is that everything around me becomes a potential scholarly topic. And I start planning out where to begin the search of existing literature before I finish feeling and experiencing whatever it is. A case in point is divinity school. For the first two weeks of being at Candler (School of Theology at Emory University), I felt like a researcher doing an ethnography of seminary. I still think that's a pretty doggone good idea! It took almost a month before I began to feel the experience as something other than a research project. What's so b

All my brainiac friends don't get excited. This ain't about Judith Butler.  There is one part of being a professor that I actually don't mind: the annual review process. I also enjoyed (!) the Tenure & Promotion process a few years ago, which is very similar, just a little bit higher stakes. Am I a glutton for punishment? Do I also enjoy visiting the dentist or gynecologist? No, I think find the review process meaningful because, at least so far, when I have paused to give account of myself professionally, I have come out on the plus side.  My friend Nichole, also an academic--and one whose good opinion I value and want to keep--helped me start the process this year. She has told me several times that she ought to hang out a shingle for all the counseling she gives me. I don't argue with her. This time, I was bemoaning my lack of discipline and motivation for writing. "Whitlock," she said, "what are you talking about? You spent a year interviewing peo

A sabbatical is a powerful thing. At my university, they aren't actually called sabbaticals; They are "Enhanced Faculty Leave." They are competitive, awarded based on a research proposal. At universities that honor the writing processes of its faculty, sabbaticals are given about once every six or seven years. Sabbaticals, not Enhanced Faculty Leave. Why can't my university call a sabbatical a sabbatical? Because it would imply to the voting (Republican) public that we lazy, blood-sucking socialist/communist academics were getting something for nothing. That's about what folks think of academics. Just once I'd like our leadership to take a break from politicking local legislators for additional funds for things like football programs and inform the public that about once every six or seven years, professors need time. Just time. To let the fields lie fallow, which is what has to happen for re-creation, creativity, and good writing to take place. As an act of r

One of my friends is, like me, a recovering fundamentalist Christian.  She suggested that I might get to the root of my issues, whether about relationships, teaching, or writing--whatever--by forgiving myself. It took a recovering fundamentalist to recognize that and present it in that way. The closest I ever got thinking about forgiveness was when my therapist (the one I pay) suggested that I look back at the girl who married young because of gender role social expectations and not so subtle pressure from family. She asked me to engage with that young woman, going back even to  the smart tom-boy who felt different and often alone. When I did that very hard work, I asked the young me for forgiveness. I realized that I did not feel like I had taken care of her. I remember that was a very hard session.  But forgiving myself now-- that's different from looking back at me then. Forgive, for what? The issue is the essentially the same it seems. Since my divorce, I have felt robbed of th

I have lately begun surrounding myself with friends who are either Sagittarius or who have backgrounds in a counseling or therapy profession, or both. I did not start out to purposefully do this, but once I noticed that I seemed to be collecting these kinds of people for friends, I kept keeping track. Now, It is altogether possible that they are drawn to me, so I am trying to figure out what it is that is appealing about me for these inquisitive, curious archers and advising helping professional types. I suspect it is that I tell a good story and tend to have some sort of conflict (I refuse to say drama), entanglement,  or crossroads in my life that I am seeking input for. I don't mind saying that I like to get different viewpoints about what's going on in my life. It helps me make decisions; it also means I can change my mind based on what seems to be most suitable.  They have different approaches, these groups of friends. I don't think any of them are both  Sagittariuses 

Today, January 8, is Elvis's birthday. He would have been 79 years old, which seems astonishing to me. So on this day, I will offer some random thoughts about Elvis and me. Because of those various threads that run through one's life from age to age, stage to stage, place to place, Elvis runs through mine.  I saw Elvis in 1975 when he came to the new civic center in Huntsville, Alabama. My parents, who have never been to a concert before or since, sent away through the mail for tickets. It's really remarkable to look back that it ever happened at all--but we went. I, nerd that I am, was having a little temper tantrum because I was having to miss the last day of my 5th grade class. That didn't last long. My parents remind me that I commandeered the one set of opera glasses they bought and saw Elvis magnified throughout the concert. As I have done since then whenever conversations turn to how his body became ravaged and bloated from drugs, I can testify here that in 1975,

Sabbaticals: Finishing One to Start Another For the past year, I've been on sabbatical. Not an official one. Nobody even knew I was on it. People today call it checking out, and it could also be called a detour. I think in context, though, sabbatical works. Here's what happened.  LSU was a gift I gave myself. I had gotten my undergraduate degree in education under duress. I was married, had just had a baby, and my husband did not want me to go to school. He took every opportunity to make it difficult for me, mostly by making me feel guilty. My master's degree was convenient, and I was still in survival mode when I pursued it. But LSU--I was free, and I celebrated by getting my doctorate at a terrific place. I've never regretted it.  I majored in Curriculum & Instruction; I didn't really care for the field of education at all. I had become a teacher because it was the easiest thing in the world for a smart girl like me to major in with a difficult husband and a b