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

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 ...

Last night after our traditional family Christmas drama, daddy referred to something I had mentioned in passing--that I see a therapist. The second he asked about it, I regretted it. Actually, I thought he knew; my mom has known for months, so I assumed they had talked. No. So, he asked me about it. He asked me why I'm going to a therapist. "What are you going for ?" he asked. Two things here: If I knew why I was going to therapy, I wouldn't need to go. And also, it's none of his business why. I thought everybody in the world knew to have enough tact not to aske this question. It is right up there with age and weight. But my daddy does not mind asking questions. So, despite spending the previous hour processing Xmas drama by using tools from the past year's work, I knew I might as well give him some sort of reasonable sounding answer. He asked me specifically if it was for anger, which gives me pause because I don't put that reason high on the list despite...

Littleville, Alabama, doesn't have a Starbucks. In fact, from the time I leave my apartment, conveniently located behind my local Starbucks, until I arrive at my parents' house, I don't even pass one. That's 250 miles with no Starbucks. That must be the longest stretch in the country without one. That got me thinking. It's a long way from Starbucks in more ways than one. My daddy told me once--and I agreed with him--that it took me a few days of being home to get back to my old self. I started thinking about what my old self vs. my new self must look like. He meant it takes me that long to relax, to let go of "city life" and the stresses it brings. I think it is something different. I think it takes me a few days to become accustomed to people again. I don't often appear that way to causual observers and acquaintances, but I am a solitary person. I myself didn't even know I am an introvert for a long time. I was grown when I found out. It's qu...

As happy as I was puttering around my new place, it's two days before Christmas, so I had to pack up the car and go to Alabama. Being directionally impaired to the point of anxiety and not being a fan of interstate highways, I set the TomTom to find me a new backroads shortcut. Took me 6 years to learn the shortcut from my old place--that's how bad I am. But TomTom--for whom my motto is TomTom: We Get You Close --kept planning routes that involved I-75, one of Georgia's busiest and most crowded interstates. Barely out of my apartment complex's entrance, I pulled over and searched Google Maps on my phone. The shortest route, as I knew in my heart, was a path through the lakes and mountains of my home state. So, I proceed through unchartered (for me) territory, manually scrolling through directions on my phone and leaving TomTom on to catch up. This he did after two hours of replanning the route every half mile. "Turn around when possible. Turn around when possible....