World Peace in the Basement

I just returned from teaching English at the Refugee Development Center. We meet in the basement of an old church in downtown Lansing. My class in some ways is a microcosm of the world -- the main difference being that my students peacefully co-exist. The largest group is from Cuba, but others come from Iraq, Egypt, Myanmar, China, Burundi, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Mexico. They are Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists and speak nine different languages. Each has come to America hoping for a better life for their children. Most are unemployed (the curse of Michigan), but each one would gladly have a job -- anything. The ones who are fortunate eek out meager livings working at a factory, doing housekeeping, or preparing food. The women cook and clean the house. Everyone watches a lot of television. They study English. The American dream seems awfully tarnished, but they don't complain - except about the weather. I don't blame them.

Meanwhile on Monday and Wednesday evenings, we struggle together to figure out words that are commonly taken for granted.

"Boyfriend? Like a small boy who is your friend?" one man asks.

"A cousin is your mother's sister's son or your father's sister's daughter or your mother's brother's son. You know - your grandmother's grandchildren!" I gaze out at a room full of blank stares. I had hoped that the funny-looking family tree I drew on the board might be helpful. But no - "cousin" turns out to be more complicated than I had anticipated.

We press on, forging through the linguistic impasses that continually creep up. The students whisper translations to help their friends or to double-check their hunches. They smile at me and play along with my sometimes misguided plans.

I tell them that my mother has seven brothers and three sisters. But she only has two daughters.

"How many children do you have?" they ask.
"I don't have any children."
"No children?" They seem surprised.
"You are not married?"
"No," I confess.
"What your birthday?" a middle-aged man (a former army officer) from Afghanistan asks. I know what he's trying to say.
"I'm 38." (Or am I 37? I never can remember these days.)
They don't know how to respond. Their faces reveal a combination of pity and astonishment.
"I'm old," I interject. "I need to find a husband." The Afghani man nods in agreement.
One of my Burmese students, a young woman with striking features and gorgeous brown eyes reassures me.
"I don't see 'old'," she says, "I see beautiful."

We spend the last ten minutes of class singing along with John Denver. I've discovered that people will often sing when they're too nervous to speak.

"'Cuz I'm leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go. . . ."

The lyrics seem to resonate.

Now the time has come to leave you.
One more time, let me kiss you.
Close your eyes, I'll be on my way.
Dream about the days to come
when I won't have to leave alone. . .

Class is over and my students gather their things. Echoes of "Thank you, teacher!" fill the room.

"No," I think. "Thank you."

Visualizing the Scriptures

For the past several months, I've been taking notes during my scripture study and focusing on what the Book of Mormon teaches about the Atonement of Christ. This morning, I put my notes into Wordle. This is the word cloud that was generated from the 70 most frequently used words from my text. (Click to see a bigger image. The larger the word, the greater its frequency.) I think it's a rather nice summary.

The Ministry of Microfilm

I always thought the IRS was the gold standard for bureaucracy, until I was introduced to the Ministry of Microfilm (MoM) and learned that microfilm is 21st century gold standard for document preservation. I came upon this crucial understanding at the dissertation formatting workshop I attended on Friday, which left me quite convinced that although the dissertation formatting office was obviously inspired by the IRS, MoM is indeed the final frontier of red tape. (Only in this case since color is strictly verboten, the tape must not be red. I'll explain in a moment.)

Although I don't actually have any words on paper beyond my dissertation proposal, I figured when the time came for text generation, I might as well have my margins correct. And since the workshop was 90 minutes, I assumed there must be more to it than 1-inch margins on all sides. Ha! What I didn't realize is that the Ministry employs thousands of office elves who fight over rulers and the chance to be the one to discover that a doctoral candidate's 12-point font is not actually 12 point, but 12.2 or something equally shocking. But this is not all. I also learned that any footnotes, subscripts or superscripts must be manually enlarged, and that leader dots must follow your table of contents, and that only one faculty member can be listed as your dissertation director even if you had two. (And did I mention that by the time you buy the special, hand-pressed, watermark paper and pay all the fees, it will cost well over $200 to submit the dissertation for final processing?)

As far as I can tell, however, the most egregious error one could make in dissertation formatting is attempting to insert color into your text. No, no. Dissertations are strictly black and white propositions. If you have a truly compelling reason for a dash of color, you have to fill out a form called "Letter of Exception for the Submission of Color Images." This important document has to be signed by approximately 63 people, including Joe Biden, Joe the Plumber, the Prime Minister of Zimbabwe, and the associate dean of your respective college.

Why all these rules? (And trust me, dear reader; I have mentioned only a small fraction of them.) Because microfilm is the 21st century gold standard for document preservation! As the graduate school dean astutely explained, "When Microsoft has ceased to exist, someone will still be able to read your dissertation on microfilm just by holding it up to a candle."

I'm pretty sure that these sacred microfilms are stored in an underground vault somewhere near Roswell, New Mexico where they are kept safe from flood, fire, alien invasion, or nuclear holocaust. What sweet comfort it will bring in time of affliction to know that although the world as we know it may cease to exist, my dissertation - my magnum opus -- will remain intact as a legacy to the never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

Thanks, MoM!

Pink Coats in a Strange Land

Scene 1:

No one bothered to tell me that virtually no one in Moscow was wearing hot pink in the winter of 1992. Coats were mostly black, grey, navy blue, or brown in just barely post-Soviet Russia. I, however, was a young, idealistic, clueless American with a fuschia coat – fuschia lined with green and purple plaid, no less. And every time I hopped aboard a bus, heads turned and usually, people smiled. They immediately knew I was a foreigner. Occasionally, a brave soul would say something to me and in those cases, it usually came out that I was an American.

“Oh!” the person would exclaim in delight, “you’re from America? Have you been to New York?”

Then they’d want to know what I was doing in Moscow, what I thought of the city, and they'd recommend an interesting place for me to visit or some Russian cuisine to taste. Sometimes, they’d apologize for unfriendly people or the lackluster conditions of their country. Often, they’d ask if I needed help getting somewhere. Typically, they’d compliment me on my Russian, acting honored and impressed that I’d even tackle their formidable language.

Scene 2:

The other day, I was on a bus in Michigan riding home from campus. A young man wearing a bright pink coat boarded the bus. When our eyes met, he brandished a most contagious smile. It was M, a former student of mine from the Refugee Center. He is a refugee from Burma, a country plagued by a ruthless military dictatorship, a recent spate of devastating natural disasters, and impossible economic conditions. Each week, he’d come to my class with his buddies. They were refugees, too – several of them were the only survivors in their family. Everyone else was dead. If they were lucky, they worked menial jobs in Lansing, cleaning hotel rooms, washing dishes, or sewing uniforms at a factory. Now that they were in America, they knew that learning English was the key to their future. With English, they could attend school, get a better job, make friends, understand television shows, and read the newspapers.

I’ll never forget the week when the weather turned cold. It wasn’t that cold yet, but still my Burmese students showed up in the most wonderful array of winter coats. To their Southeastern Asian sensibilities, it was plenty cold. My guess is that they picked out their coats from a pile of donated winter wear. I had seen this once. The director of the Refugee Center had announced a new arrival of donated clothing. Behold: a random assortment of clothes strewn in the hallway, some items in boxes, others simply tossed on the floor. Humbly and gratefully, some of them a bit embarrassed, my students selected items that might be worn by themselves or friends or family. I imagined a similar pile of coats. I don’t know if M chose the pink coat because he liked it or if it was the only one remaining. I wonder if he knew that most young men in Lansing wouldn’t be caught dead in a fuschia coat. I wonder if he cared. After all, it did the job.

M and I exchanged a brief greeting as he made his way to the back of the bus. The bus wasn’t full, but that was where his friends were sitting. I listened to them cheerfully chattering in Burmese.

I waved to M as I got off the bus. Again, he smiled broadly.

I wondered. Do people here express interest in M? Do they care what he thinks of our country? Do they apologize for unfriendly people? Are they impressed and honored that he is trying to learn English? Do they know or care where Burma is? Can they even begin to imagine what it would be like to be the only living soul in your family?

Do they wonder who’s inside that hot pink coat?

A Cabbie, a Concert, and a 3.5 million-dollar Stradivarius

If Joshua Bell were a basketball player, he'd be Michael Jordan. If he were a movie star, he'd be Brad Pitt. If he were a politician, he'd be Barack Obama. If Joshua Bell were a violinist, he'd be . . . oh wait, he is the violinist of his time. The guy's a rock-star, except he happens to play the violin. People all over the world pay big money to hear him play, which is why I took notice when I heard he was performing at Michigan State. And why I was really glad I still qualify for student rates at the box office, and why I convinced my friends that this experience was crucial to our education. This is also why I felt perfectly certain that Joshua Bell would have a driver.

"Of course he has a driver," I confidently explained to Marjorie, my friend who was accompanying me and Ann to the concert, "I just can't imagine them crammed into some economy rental car."

I had just received an automated telephone message explaining that the performance was postponed till 8:00 p.m.. It turns out poor weather had grounded all the flights out of Louisville and Mr. Bell was therefore en route via car to Michigan.

After a delicious, leisurely dinner, we made our way to the Wharton Center. It was 7:55 and people were still milling about. We learned from the usher that Joshua Bell had arrived about 15 minutes earlier.

A few minutes after 8:00, Mr. Bell and his pianist, Jeremy Denk, walked on to the stage. Both adorned in fairly nondescript black attire, button-down shirts (untucked) and sleek black pants, they seemed perhaps just the tiniest bit frazzled, but only the tiniest bit. Any molecule of frazzle evaporated, however, the moment they began playing. After a few measures, they were carried away by a compelling musical conversation between the violin and the piano, carrying us away with them. Their virtuosity was evident, the interpretation brilliant, the performance impeccable. The hall was utterly silent as they played, punctuated only by a few coughs that escaped between movements.

After intermission, Joshua Bell, slouching down to reach the microphone, told us the story of their adventure getting here. They had originally planned to take an early morning flight out of Louisville where they had performed the night before. Upon arriving at the the airport, however, they discovered that every flight had been canceled -- except for theirs. Their sigh of relief was short-lived as their flight was also canceled soon thereafter. Plan B was to drive to Cincinnati, about two hours away, and catch a flight from there to Detroit. After negotiating a price, they found a cab-driver who agreed to take them.

But in another turn of misfortune, a dead battery sabotaged plan B prompting the two musicians to explain their plight to the next driver in line. In solidarity to his comrade, he said that instead of taking them himself, he'd jump the first driver's car. The taxi successfully jump-started, they piled into the cab with an uncertain battery. They were very certain, however, not to leave behind Mr. Bell's violin, an 18th century Stradivarius worth 3.5 million dollars.

The stream of bad luck continued when they learned that they weren't going to be able to get a flight out of Cincinnati after all.

"Would you like to keep going?" they asked Neville, the driver and their new-found best friend.

He agreed and drove another six hours to Lansing.

"Neville decided to stay and hear the concert," Joshua Bell continued, gesturing to a somewhat under-dressed gentleman in the audience. The man stood up and received his own round of enthusiastic, grateful applause.

"If the tempo of our music seems on the fast side tonight," Joshua Bell quipped, "it's because the meter's still running."

The second half of the concert was as glorious as the first. And somehow, it was even better laced with this tale of human kindness, ingenuity, and determination. I'm pretty sure Neville had no idea at first that he was transporting two world-class musicians who regularly rub shoulders with the creme de la creme of society. Yet regardless of wealth and social status, it was a cabbie from Kentucky who made it possible for the show to go on.


(As a bonus feature to this post, I'm linking to a wonderful Pulitzer Prize winning article about the day Joshua Bell played incognito in a Washington, D.C. subway station. It's aptly named Pearls Before Breakfast. )

An 8-year-old's View of the Presidency

My eight-year-old niece, Lindsey, called me today. We were chatting about the usual things -- books, extreme sports (bodily damage sustained while sledding in the front yard), and politics. I asked her what she thought about the inauguration of President Obama. She liked it.

"He sure has a big, hard job," I remarked.

"Oh, it's not a hard job," she replied, "but it is a big job. He has to work from 1 a.m. to midnight every day, making laws and stuff. And they're getting a dog."

Thanks, Linds. I stand corrected.

(P.S. For those of you who know this precious beagle, can you imagine what it would be like if Mei Mei were the White House pet? Soon there would be a press corp entirely devoted to Mei Mei coverage!)

A Giant "To Do" List

I got tagged by Carol. This is a list of things to do before you die. Bold means I've done it; ~~ means I haven't done it and I'm o.k. with that; ** means I haven't done it, but I'd really like to.

1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band ~~
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower **
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis ~~
10. Sang a solo
11. Bungee jumped ~~
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea **
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch **
15. Adopted a child **
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty **
18. Grown your own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked (in Russia)
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill (if anyone answers no on this, they are lying) ** (I seriously haven't -- but I have gone to work plenty of times when I was sick!)
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb **
26. Gone skinny dipping ~~(but I've done it in a dream)
27. Run a Marathon ~~
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse **
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run ** (But first, I'd have to learn to make contact with the ball while batting!)
32. Been on a cruise **
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language
37. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol ~~
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person **
39. Gone rock climbing ~~ (I'm too chicken.)
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David **
41. Sung karaoke **
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant **
44. Visited Africa **
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance ~~
47. Had your portrait painted ~~ (A photo is bad enough!)
48. Gone deep sea fishing **
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris ** (It was closed when we were there.)
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain ** (Came dangerously close though . . .)
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie ~~
56. Visited the Great Wall of China **
57. Started a business (You might not know that I was the founder of "Summer Workshop for Children," a booming business venture when I was 12.)
58. Taken a martial arts class **
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies ~~ (I just want to eat them, not sell them.)
62. Gone whale watching **
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving ~~
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter **
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten Caviar (unfortunately)
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square **
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Ridden a horse
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle ~~
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car **
83. Walked in Jerusalem **
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating ~~ (ick!)
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life **
90. Sat on a jury **
91. Met someone famous ~~ (famous, schmamous)
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby **
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Ocean
97. Been involved in a law suit ~~
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. Totally copied a blog post from someone else's blog to your own. ~~

I tag anyone else who wants to play!

An Ode to Food

Food is my friend . . . and my hobby, and quite frankly, one of the great joys of this frail existence. I especially adore experimenting with healthy foods inspired by other cultures. (This is not to say I don't appreciate and happily consume less-healthy delights -- a piece of high-quality chocolate is a daily routine and I will occasionally indulge in greasy, salty, sugary, loaded-with-all-the-stuff-that'll kill-you options.) However, I do maintain that it's the healthy food graced with color, texture, and variety of flavors that really satisfies me. For instance, when you eat a plate of brown rice and black beans mixed with bits of mango, fried plantain, a handful of peanuts, and some fresh cilantro, it's a total sensory experience that makes the cells of your body vibrate in approval. "Thank you," they seem to say, "and for this we shall give you long life and inner peace." The crunch of the peanuts, the sweet, smushiness of the plantain, the vibrant yellow-orange tanginess of the mango, the refreshing scent of the cilantro -- all this as the rice and beans fill the empty caverns of your stomach. It brings enough harmony that I am nearly compelled to assume a yoga pose (except that "downward dog" is the only pose I can assume without serious bodily damage and it just doesn't quite convey the desired effect).

Since I can't show you photos of my children, I shall show you photos of my food. I could carry on about how fun and easy it was to cook and how each meal cost less than $2, but I'll leave that to your imagination.




Inspired by our friends south of the border: Black beans and brown rice with fried plantains and a salad made of broccoli, cabbage, tomatoes, avocados, cilantro, and a southwestern olive oil vinaigrette.




Homemade falafel (garbanzo beans mixed with yummy Mediterranean spices) inside homemade whole-wheat pita bread garnished with peppers, tomatoes, and a cucumber-yogurt sauce. A taste of middle-eastern cuisine for a winter day in Michigan.




And finally, a Chinese smorgasbord cooked by a dear friend. (I was one of two Americans at an otherwise Chinese party. Great fun!) Everything was delectable -- but don't ask me to vouch for the spicy pig ears.

How about you? What is your happiness food?

Holiday Hurrahs!

Recently home from 2 1/2 week sojourn in the west (Idaho and Utah), I'm now catapulting back into my Michigan life (a life which I safely locked away in a box over the break). It was glorious to be home for the holidays. Here are a few of the things I'm still cheering about:

Hurrah for snow! The more the better, except when you're traveling. (My bus ride from Salt Lake to Idaho Falls took 7 hours -- longer than it took me to fly from Detroit to Salt Lake!) Still, it was a winter wonderland like the good ole' days, pre-global warming and all that.

Hurrah for family and friends! This goes without saying. I treasured happy times with my mom, various cousins, aunts & uncles, and sister-like friends.

Hurrah for food! This also goes without saying, but Christmas time is especially good for eating. This year, I took the anti-weight-watchers approach and happily gobbled anything within reach. I also discovered turkey pumpkin chili -- a delightful concoction that came from our new ward cookbook. In fact, I spent most of Christmas Day making it. Since it turned out that my Mom didn't actually have pumpkin or turkey or canned beans, we had to improvise ('cuz once you have your heart set on a recipe, there's no turning back). I used frozen squash, cooked decades-old beans from scratch, and ground up the flesh from a package of chicken legs in my Grandma's decades-old hand-grinder. Voila! We also had a fun Asian soup cooking party at the Baileys, another dinner party (starring soup) with a group of my Mom's friends, and a lunch get-together (with soup, of course) with my dear friend, Fe' and her seven children.

Hurrah for campfires in the canyon! For New Year's Eve, we (the Blairs, Williams, Cherice and I) tromped up Rock Canyon in the snow and moonlight. It took some serious effort, but eventually the fire evolved from smoldering to flaming. We sang songs and roasted little smokies and marshmallows till we were full and freezing. Then the girls slid down the canyon on sleds while the rest of us cautiously inched along (by this time, it was completely dark and icy). Back at home, we ate a delicious Mexican meal, played games, and consumed many, many brownies (which we lovingly dubbed "chocolate omelette" due to the large number of eggs in the recipe).

Hurrah for technology! In my first ever video conference, I got to watch my nieces and nephew perform their ready-for-Broadway New Year's Eve dances. It was almost as good as being there.

Hurrah for the VAPPP! Some of you may not know about this very exclusive organization, The Veritable Association of Pigs, Poets, and Politics. We had our annual meeting at the Wilkinson Center -- Pig Pen Bowling. A big SNORT was required when someone got a gutter ball and in the case of a strike, you put on a pig snout and posed for a victory photo. Kristen provided us with VAPPP T-shirts for Christmas -- you can't see from the picture, but the back of the shirts say "OINK."




And now that the holidays are over and real-life responsibilities have once again descended, hip-hip-hurray for writing a dissertation! (I am trying to be cheerful about it.)

Vital Signs

There are some serious benefits to chronic illnesses -- not the least of which is the biannual ritual commonly known as Verification of Life (VoL). This medical procedure bears striking resemblances to an autopsy, but with the opposite objective. In regards to VoL, I am twice-blessed: not only do I have the privilege of regularly undergoing the rite, I get spectators. (This is a value-added option that comes with obtaining medical care at an institution for higher learning.) For those of you unfamiliar with the process, I shall recount for you in vivid detail my experience earlier this week.

Scene 1: After stepping gracefully onto the scale nostalgically patterned after medieval instruments historically used to ascertain the relative value of dead game, I am escorted into a plush exam room. Sitting peacefully in a vinyl covered chair, I admire the impressionistic painting of a golf course. Although lacking in artistic merit, this painting inspires greater ease of mind than the portrait of a snarling tiger hanging prominently in one of the other exam rooms. (I am not making this up.) Grateful to be in the golf course room, I extend my arm cooperatively while the friendly assistant takes my blood pressure. You may have noticed that at this point, we have two pieces of evidence intimating life: 1) adequate mass to suggest that corporeal decay has not yet set in, and 2) pulse and blood pressure readings that fit within scientifically-established parameters for likely mortality. You might also consider the fact that I have responded coherently to a litany of questions posed by the friendly assistant. Such behavior could imply cognitive function, but this is, admittedly, merely circumstantial evidence.

Although insufficient for full verification of life, these measures are adequate grounds for declaring a hypothesis: patient could be alive. Validating this hypothesis, of course, requires confirming evidence and the scrutiny of seasoned medical professionals.

Scene II: Enter the highly-respected physician, Dr. G, and his followers. Dr. G exudes competence: nearing retirement age, this fine gentleman is scrupulously thorough and keenly knowledgeable. Not to be distracted from his mission, the good doctor briefly introduces his followers,

"This is Magnolia Jones, blossoming medical student, and Dr. Happy Resident, the future of this esteemed profession."

The two spectators smile and nod as though to say, "We found your medical history highly fascinating. In fact, we shall draw on it extensively in our upcoming assignments." A researcher-in-training myself, I attempt to find satisfaction in my unselfish contribution to the rigorous education of medical practitioners.

Now that we can dispense of formalities, Dr. G begins his extensive series of scientific tests. I am greatly relieved when I manage to track the subtle movement of his fingers with my eyes. (This simple task becomes more complicated with spectators as the pressure to perform is almost overwhelming.) The doctor looks at my hands and counts my fingers -- all ten are present and accounted for. With these tasks successfully accomplished, we move on to more complicated procedures. I am asked to swallow a sip of water to highlight the gentle curvature of my thyroid. I open my mouth and say "ah" with just the right pitch and resonance, although we all wish I had brushed my teeth before presenting myself. I can tell Dr. G is building a solid case for life, but it is still a bit too early to rush to any bold conclusions.

With anticipation mounting, Dr. G confirms my beating heart and functioning lungs. Next, he verifies the presence of all the vital organs: liver, stomach, and carburetor all appear operational. But one final test remains. Dr. G. pauses and turns to the spectators,

"Ideally, you ought to have clear view of the muscle contracting," he advises, his tone emphasizing the gravitas of the situation.

"Now just try to relax," he says to me.

The next thing I know, I feel the tap of the mallet on my knee as my leg flails wildly in the direction of the doctor. The spectators attempt to suppress their amusement.

I sit up and ask the burning question that is hovering ominously.

"Am I alive?"

The spectators and I wait with baited breath. Finally, the doctor nods reassuringly.

"Oh, yes," he announces, "Alive and kicking."

And with that momentous declaration, my biannual Verification of Life ritual comes to a close. A very happy ending indeed.

A Tribute to the Village

Original image: 'Children of Mareerey' http://www.flickr.com/photos/7415626@N04/1267694021 by: LM TP

Hillary Clinton reminded us that it takes a village to raise a child. Turns out, it also takes a village to write a dissertation. Along with showering me with all manner of chocolate options, good health, a computer that works, and a sunny place to work, God has blessed me with a mighty fine village. In fact, I'm surrounded on all sides by people cheering me on. There's a mandatory part of the dissertation-writing process that requires some serious grumbling and gnashing of teeth -- but really, it's not as bad as all that. Not when your writing group provides a steady stream of feedback and encouragement and significantly demystifies the whole process. Not when you have friends who are on the other side of the PhD mountain who really get it. Not when you have family and friends who actually think you are up to the task (whether or not your are) and believe your project will change the world (whether or not it really will). Not when you have an adviser who gives you total freedom and all manner of timely support. Not when all of these people have endless capacity for compassionate listening. Not when the Lord is clearly paving the way.

Blessings to the villagers, each and every one.


(Disclaimer: I fear this will only be a temporary cessation of grumbling, but let us cherish the moment nonetheless.)

Deserted Island or How to Goose a Plunger

For the record, today was one of those days when I did not utter one word to another human being (except for a 5 minute phone conversation). And I never left my apartment except to go to the laundry room downstairs and the mailbox just outside. Furthermore, I had hot & sour cabbage soup with tofu for lunch. For dinner I opened four cans: beets, green beans, corn, and pears. Solitary confinement? Heaven? A day-in-the-life of a PhD student? You be the judge. Rest assured, however -- I did think plenty of deep thoughts.

While I can happily tolerate a smattering of these deserted island days, I don't particularly like a slew of them. After a while, my deep thoughts tend to border on pathological. I start to subsist on junk food. And I'm prone to spending WAY too much time online just to feel connected to the outside world.

Today's solitude was easily outdone, however, by my holiday weekend in Ohio where I enjoyed a non-stop party with my amazing aunt and a bunch of cousins. Mike and Melanie (never mind that she is on the verge of having baby #3) made the trek from D.C. with their two adorable boys. The local Taylors also joined the fun. One thing about this side of the family: they are exceptionally good at eating and talking, only occasionally coming up for air when absolutely necessary. It was a glorious respite from dissertating.

My stay was extended a day by some minor car troubles. (If you consider a completely dead battery minor trouble.) My aunt, the retired German professor, who is a renaissance woman, single-handedly recharged my battery. Instead of acting grateful for the rejuvenation, however, my little Subaru started flashing the parking lights and making an obnoxious clicking sound. And it refused to stop. An auto parts store suggested that we "disconnect the positive" for a few minutes to see if the car would reset itself. "It's really simple," they reassured us. (What? Were we not the perfect picture of auto mechanical prowess?!)

Once home, we performed this delicate operation.

Step 1: open hood
Step 2: identify battery
Step 3: wonder which part is the positive thing to be disconnected
Step 4: envision ourselves as the nuns in the Sound of Music who tampered with the soldiers' cars the night the von Trapp family escaped Austria; feel tempted to burst into song
Step 5: refrain from bursting into song for fear of blowing ourselves up
Step 6: professor aunt remembers that red means positive
Step 7: survey tool options; reject hammer, choose various wrench-like objects
Step 8: unscrew a dinglehopper, remove something else, wait ten minutes
Step 9: screw purported positive thing back onto battery with my bare hands
Step 10: car won't start
Step 11: tighten screw with wrench-like tool
Step 12: car starts!
Step 13: clicking noise resumes along with flashing lights
Step 14: completion of said delicate operation is tainted by the sting of defeat

When my cousin Hank came over, he informed us that we had, in actuality, not disconnected the battery at all. Whatever. In any case, my cousin the Superhero, performed a series of diagnostic tests and determined that the problem was connected with "remote sensors." We eventually found a Subaru repair guy who was actually working the Saturday after Thanksgiving. This helpful chap revealed the secret to calming my out of control remote sensors. "Just goose the plunger right next to the brown wire," he said. (The brown wire happened to be located in some obscure location under the dash.) Hank heroically found the switch which did indeed stop the frenetic clicking and flashing of lights. In the process, he also magically fixed the door of my hatchback that I hadn't been able to open for weeks.

Hank subscribes to the "you can toss a man a fish, but it's better to teach him to catch one himself" philosophy. Suspecting that I could find myself in a similar situation at some future point, Hank grabbed my finger and showed me the mysterious plunger switch. "Now goose it!" he commanded. Goose it? Huh? I tried to imagine what a goose would do with the silly switch. My dumbfounded look must have resembled that of a person who is prone to unsuspectingly leaving car lights on for prolonged periods. "Just push the button - HARD!" he barked. And goose it, I did!

Should my doctoral aspirations fall apart, I'm pretty sure I'm now qualified for a level one auto mechanic's license. A very comforting thought indeed.

Popular?

Today I hit the pinnacle of my social life.

I now have 101 friends on Facebook.

Imagine that! Lil' ole' me, socially inept, perpetual wallflower, third-wheel extraordinaire -- has hit the magical three-digit mark. Of course, people who are truly cool will quickly meet and exceed my meager statistic, if they haven't already. (And if you are a generation or two younger than me, the popularity bar is much higher -- somewhere in the mid-500s.)

But for a moment, let's just pretend that I'm popular.

No more juice

This is my brain on dissertation.

Photo by Petoo http://www.flickr.com/photos/22155732@N00/469759384

This and That

My latest gimmick for getting my proposal written resides in a cheap kitchen timer. I set it for 45 minutes (which is often the longest stretch of time in which I can sustain focus) and work until it goes off, at which point I set it for 15 minutes of blissful "do whatever you want" time. Lately, it has taken me the entire 45 minutes to write one paragraph. I won't even begin to calculate how long it will take me to write the entire dissertation at this rate. Eek! Instead, I will use the remaining 11 minutes and 42 seconds to make random comments. Here I go!

A note on the election: Like many Americans, I was enveloped in the warm fuzzy feeling of democracy in action when I cast my ballot. It was a gorgeous fall day and living in a free and peaceful country felt particularly delicious. My giddiness turned to solemnity as I listened to McCain's remarkably gracious concession speech. Then there was the historic moment when Obama took the podium as our first African-American President-Elect as the cameras panned thousands of jubilant people who were witnessing the unbelievable become reality. I wouldn't wish his position on anyone -- given the perilous circumstances of the present, it takes a double-dose of audacity to think that anyone could manage the job. Still, I just hope and pray that he will exercise wisdom and statesmanship. And I marvel that despite all our flaws, America remains a country where transitions of power are smooth and peaceful.

Additions to my "less-effective" list: 1) accidentally flushing my contact lenses down the toilet, 2) writing a check for over $600 to my voice teacher to pay for my $15 lesson (thankfully, she didn't cash it)

Favorite comfort foods at the moment: 1) "tension tamer" herbal tea, 2) homemade hot and sour soup (chicken broth, ginger, garlic, lime juice, chili sauce, green onions, and mushrooms), 3) a plain old McDonald's hamburger with the little hamburger patty, minced onions, lots of ketchup, and a pickle, 4) caramels

Strange dreams: Although I haven't spoken Russian in years or even thought about Russia lately, I dreamt in Russian the other night. Go figure! My brain really must be in overdrive these days.

Number of great workouts of late: zero

Number of days sick with apparently the same bug: approximately 18 out of the last 30!

On that note, I bid you all adieu and return to my regularly scheduled program of dissertating.