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

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 ro...

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  Sa...

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 19...

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...

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...

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...