Odd jobs January 19, 2009

I had such a wonderful weekend. Sunday B. and I had a lovely, slow morning that stretched out until 1pm, at which time we ventured out on our bicycles. It was beautiful out! Sunny, and almost warm. This January is so dramatically different than our first January in Vancouver, when it rained 29 out of 31 days. This year so far January has been often grey and at times bitterly cold — and snowy early on, though we missed that while we were in Europe — but the past few days have been bright and sunny and rainless. We biked down to a bicycle shop, where I ordered a trendy new helmet, and then over to a sushi restaurant where we had a light late lunch. After we spent just a little time walking around the Drive — my favorite neighborhood in Vancouver — I went to the best yoga class ever. Kyira is just an incredible instructor. We ended with wheel pose, and I felt so solid and strong. After yoga, I stayed on at the yoga studio for a nonviolent communication (NVC) practice group meeting. A few years ago I had an NVC practice group, but I haven’t been in the NVC mindset for a while, so I am excited that the local self-organized punk-Buddhist group is starting a practice group. And I really enjoyed the vibe and the people — I’m looking forward to the next meeting. Then I rushed home — leaving the practice group early, because I had mixed up the timing of things — for dinner; B. had made a yummy Thai curry for me.

The weekend was so nice that I have been able to hold my depression about work at bay, and even now, Monday morning, though I can feel the weightiness of my obligations knocking, I am resisting, keeping the door pushed shut on them. If I can just slide myself sideways into getting something done, something not unpleasant, something that will help me feel competent and productive, then maybe I can cheat the anxiety into drifting off aimlessly into the sunshine.

Meanwhile, in the past few days, I’ve been thinking about other kinds of jobs that I could do. I want to think about jobs that are a craft, that involve the repetition of a process but also a bit of a unique and interesting challenge each time. Jobs that I can do part-time, to keep a focus on my writing. And jobs that are relatively easy to take up anywhere, anytime, so that I can move to Norway (or elsewhere) if I want and easily find work, and so that I can quit to travel and then return and find work. They can’t be so menial that I will be completely bored. I want to work in friendly and sociable work environments. Below is the list of jobs I’ve daydreamed, or that other people have suggested.

-Luthier (guitar making)

-Cutting hair

-Bicycle repair

-Ultrasound lab technician (my friend G. suggested that one)

Dear Reader, please add to my list in the comments below!

I was also wishing, yesterday, that I could convene a Clearness Committee to help me figure out my worklife woes. When I lived at Quaker House in Ann Arbor, MI, I learned about some Quaker traditions. One is a Clearness Committee:

A clearness committee meets with a person who is unclear on how to proceed in a keenly felt concern or dilemma, hoping that it can help this person reach clarity. It assumes that each of us has an Inner Teacher who can guide us and therefore that the answers sought are within the person seeking clearness. It also assumes that a group of caring friends can serve as channels of divine guidance in drawing out that Inner Teacher. The purpose of committee members is not to give advice or to “fix” the situation; they are there to listen without prejudice or judgment, to help clarify alternatives, to help communication if necessary, and to provide emotional support as an individual seeks to find “truth and the right course of action.”

(from Clearness Committees and Their Use in Personal Discernment by Jan Hoffman)

Perhaps I will organize one for myself. Who knows, Dear Reader, I may ask you to be a part of it!

Thoughts on craft January 15, 2009

Two days ago B. sent me an email from work. “I was just recollecting two dreams I had last night,” she said, and I paraphrase. “One was that I was climbing up a ladder to climb into a window in  a house. The piece of the house I grabbed tore loose, and I fell really far, but I was fine. Another is that you quit your job, and I was upset.”

Yesterday morning I realized, suddenly and to my surprise, that the reason I keep binging on box-cookies at work (and by box-cookies I mean the kind you buy in a supermarket, in a box, like Peek Freans and Oreos, etc.), is because I’m stressed at work.

I don’t have a particularly stressful job, and my work environment is relatively pleasant (especially compared to the overall university environment, which can be quite toxic). The people I work with are friendly, if a little stand-off-ish. But still, there it is. I’m not sure exactly what stresses me out about it, but regardless, I am stressed when I am at work.

The same day that B. wrote me that email, I took my guitar to a luthier.* Being in Nicole Alosinac’s workshop was pretty amazing. There were beautiful bits of guitar hanging up all over the place. Nicole inspected my guitar from all angles, she peered down the length of the neck, she thumped my instrument on the back, she ran her fingers along every fret, plucking at each string along the way to hear how the beast played. She slipped a long narrow thing into the body of the guitar after she removed the strings, and then flapped it open. It was a mirror hinged into a triptych, narrow enough to slide into a guitar and then flap open so that with the help of a small flashlight one could view the underside of the top of the instrument. Nicole invited me to look at the inside of my guitar. It was amazing: a delicate lattice of beams bracing the rainbow arch that is the top of the guitar, a flat expanse, a single slice of tree.

Later, I was thinking about Nicole’s work, and wondering whether I would enjoy being a luthier. The thing about building and repairing guitars is that the work is the same, over and over again, and yet different every time. It is a craft. Nothing about my work is like that. My work is different all the time; I have an overarching goal that I am aiming towards, and I chip away, trying one approach and another, seeing if I can make a dent in the culture of teaching at the university, and support some folks in their own teaching endeavors in the meantime. That’s my job, and writing about it in that way excites me, actually. It sounds pretty damn good to me. But the reality is slow and progress is uncertain and circuitous. It is intellectually challenging much of the time, which is wonderful except that it sucks my creative energy away from writing my book. And my job requires a highly refined ability to delay gratifiction. I’m just not excelling at that at the moment.

Work that is the same, over and over, but different every time. That is craft, and it sounds so refreshing it makes me want to cry with relief to think of it. I thought about craft again when B. went to get her hair cut yesterday: it is the same thing! Cutting hair, it is just the same process over and over again, each time another head, and each time a new work of art, but using the same basic skills and tools. I went to the dentist this morning and I thought hmm, again, same thing. Every filling is the same, but then again, each filling is different.

When I was an undergraduate student, I worked at an infant research lab. Yes, we did research on infants. Specifically on infant speech processing. The main part of my job was to sit across a small table from the infant (who was in the parent’s lap) in the experiment room, and keep the infant just barely engaged enough to keep its head facing me. The experiment involved training the infant to turn its head in reaction to particular speech sounds, so I had to maintain the infant’s interest so that a head-turn would be obviously in reaction to a sound, as opposed to the general bobbly-headedness of an infant looking at every nook and cranny of the room. At the same time, I couldn’t get the infant too interested in me; the infant still needed to be able to attend to the speech sounds emitted by a loudspeaker to the left. It was the same thing, every time, and yet every baby was so different. Some babies needed three wind-up toys hopping around on the table, plus two spinning plastic rings, or they would be looking around the room, looking at the mom, looking at the ceiling… Other babies were so focused that even my hand on the table was too riveting. I loved the challenge of figuring out the babies; I got so that I could get most babies at the right level of attention within the first 30 seconds.

I don’t want that particular job again, but there are qualities of that work that I covet. The craft of it. The possibility of attaining competence, even expertise, without being bored. (OK, I was bored at that job sometimes, but being in the room with the babies was the most rewarding part. And it was a pretty good undergrad sort of job).

When I got B.’s email two days ago, I laughed at her dream and emailed her back. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to quit my job!”

I’m still not planning to quit my job. But maybe I should pay close attention to B.’s dreams. And to other sorts of craft-work that I see around me.

*A luthier is a maker of stringed instruments. A guitar craftsperson.

Size and place January 9, 2009

I’m in London.

I’ve always considered myself a city person. To be happy, I need people around, and access to quirky events and cultural activities. I don’t need mountains, forests or oceans, or even lakes, unlike my partner B., who needs a quick route to Nature, and more than just a nice park. I’m content with some trees here and there, myself. What I really need is a bit of a buzz, some bookshops, organic grocers, activist demonstrations from time to time…

When I first moved to Ann Arbor, MI (population: 114, 024, of which about 37,000 are University of Michigan students), I swore (repeatedly), “This is the smallest place I am ever going to live!” And that may be true. Before Ann Arbor I had lived in cities such as Boston, Kyoto, Madrid, and yes, briefly London as well…

But in Ann Arbor I learned to love small. Small doesn’t necessarily mean dull. Ann Arbor has great music, lots of bookstores and literary events, decent food (and some excellent food), the best used CD store I’ve ever patronized. It also has good vibes, is close to a major city with interesting history (Detroit), and also has recreational opportunities with lakes and forested parks not too far away. Ann Arbor has a thriving queer scene, a deep history of activism, and all sorts of quirky groups and events. And when I lived in Ann Arbor, I could roll out of bed and be at work/school in 10 minutes. I could walk anywhere I wanted to be within 25 minutes. It was easy to go home for dinner and then go out to a movie or the theater or to meet friends or attend a lecture. Small in size, large (enough) in scale.

After Ann Arbor, I moved to Vancouver, Canada. Vancouver has a lot to offer, but it takes forever to get from one place to another. My commute to work averages 45 minutes, which bites a huge chunk out of my day. I could live closer to where I work, but I prefer to live in a more vibrant, energetic part of town. Once I get home for dinner, though, it takes a lot to get out again. I hardly ever listen to live music, largely because the shows I want to go to start late and end late, and also because I don’t want to trek halfway across town again. Even though Vancouver has lots more going on than Ann Arbor, I don’t take advantage of it because it is all so spread out.

London is a different thing altogether. This place is HUGE. The buildings are enormous. I’ve been to New York and I’ve been to Tokyo, and it’s a similar energy: everything moving fast and living large. I don’t know that I’d want to live so large. I’ve come to appreciate some things about small.

That said, the tube here is so efficient. Maybe I’d be motivated to go halfway across the city for an event because it really doesn’t take too long to get around. Or maybe I’m just an enthusiastic tourist.

And I am! We’re about to go to the Tate Modern, to the Borough Market, and St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Reflections on a scary and uncertain future (and I’m not even talking about global warming or regional conflict) January 5, 2009

Today we leave Norway, to return Summer 2010 for our next visit. Departures are always a little stressful. My partner B. will be sad, and so will her parents. There’s a bittersweet quality to leaving, especially this time, because in many ways B. would like to stay.

B. and I have ongoing discussions about moving to Bergen. When we made the move to Vancouver in 2005, after I completed my PhD and she finished her masters, we had a five-year plan (which did not involve constructing factories or farms, or killing anyone) to stay in Vancouver and then (potentially) try out living in Norway. Actually the plan was to re-assess after about four years in Vancouver, and decide whether we want to move to Bergen after the fifth year.

Well, this coming summer will be our four-year anniversary of living in Vancouver. And it is already clear how this assessment is shaping up: B. wants to move to Norway. I don’t.

Don’t get me wrong: it is beautiful here, B.’s family is very loving and accepting (and very excited about our potential move here), the quality of life in most respects is amazing. A minimum of five weeks vacation per year, mandated by the government. Good salaries. Bergen is said to be one of the prettiest cities in the world. People get to do lots of the things they love, like fishing, sailing, kayaking, hiking in the mountains.B.’s parents live right on a fjord. I mean, right on the fjord. Like, it is in their backyard.

B. standing behind her parents' house looking out to the fjord.

But it is hard for me to visualize myself here. Actually, I don’t want to. I grew up moving internationally, and I know what that’s about, and that isn’t what I want for my adult life. I don’t want to derail my career as an educational developer working on diversity and inclusion issues in the university classroom. I don’t really want to live life in a foreign language–though I’m not afraid to learn Norwegian. I don’t want to live in a city that doesn’t have neighborhoods with distinct character. I don’t want to live in a place that doesn’t have a visible and thriving counterculture of social justice and environmental activists and artists (and maybe Bergen does, but I haven’t found much evidence yet, though I know the music scene is alive here, and not just Norwegian death metal, either). I don’t want to make my life in a place where hardly anyone seems to have thought about race and racism, where I have hardly met anyone who has ongoing self-awareness of their own privilege (or if they do, they don’t talk about it). I don’t want to live in a city that doesn’t have literary events on a regular basis, even in a language not my own. I don’t want to live in a country where no one knows what to do with a vegetarian; even the Chinese restaurant had only three items without meat in them (one was called “Vegetarian” with no other description).

It’s funny; one aspect of my book is about how children are affected when they are exposed to a diversity of lifestyle and political values that differ from their own family’s values. For example, a peace activist, Democrat-voting family living in a small conservative town in Michigan, or an evangelical Christian libertarian-leaning family in Seattle. A book I read in 2008, Bill Bishop’s The Big Sort, is about how the United States is being gradually sorted into lifestyle value-based microcommunities that lack ideological diversity. In my book, I explore how that affects kids. But in my own life, I want the opportunity to stay snug in a leftie, alternative, activist, creative sort of microcosm. I want to live amongst people ‘not like me’ in terms of what they look like, where they come from and how they think about the world, but ‘like me’ in terms of what is important to them, and what kinds of liveliness they want around them. I’m aware of the acute contradiction there.

As a writer, I don’t want to live somewhere where a language barrier will prevent me from creating community with other writers. Even once I learn the langauge, I’m not going to write in Norwegian. I’m not going to be able to offer meaningful feedback on language use to other writers writing in Norwegian, not for many years. And because I won’t have the capacity to reciprocate, I won’t have other writers around me to offer me meaningful input on my work. The internet is great, but it really isn’t the same as being surrounded by living breathing community.

So, there it is. And what does it mean for my relationship with B.?

We don’t know. For now we’re just going to follow our plan of looking toward 2010/2011 as a moving time. I want to place my first book with a publisher before I move anywhere, and my goal is to make that happen in 2010, so 2011 is a more realistic time for a move. And then?

My greatest fear is that I will move here with B. and that I will be miserable (no job, no friends, no life) and she will thrive, and after two years–our ‘trial period’–I will not want to stay, and she will not want to lose me, but be unwilling to leave. And I will have to start my life over again, by myself this time, the world wide open to me with no plan and no safety net and no home base. At this point that is distinctly unappealing. Actually, terrifying.

Maybe I’ll feel differently about the idea of moving to Norway by the time 2011 rolls around. If I don’t, maybe I’ll move farther east, to Toronto or Boston, and B. will go to Bergen, and we’ll see how that flies. I really have no idea.