This week and next I will be unusually busy. I look forward to catching up with you when I return. I will be full of adventures to share–including some details of a trip to the East Coast!

If you are in New Haven or Boston and you want to meetup this weekend, please drop me a line. It will be a whirlwind trip, but I hope to find time for friends!

Since I started paddling an outrigger canoe through the Newport harbor, I’ve gone under a lot of bridges. I learned, very quickly, that the current around bridges can be unpredictable–even dangerously so. In my small boat if I hit a bridge it means that I’ll likely end up going for an unintentional swim and the blow from hitting a cement pylon can easily cause irreparable damage to my fragile canoe.

As I paddled under a low-lying bridge last week and heard the uncanny echo of water and wind through that space, I realized why trolls always live under bridges in folktales. Bridges are important places–necessary crossroads. But they are also liminal places where danger lurks. It might be in the form of a malintentioned someone hiding in the shadows, or it might be a whirl of current that pulls the boat toward a cement piling encrusted with mussel shells. Whatever the possibilities, bridge-crossings demand heightened attention.

Like the dangers of the bridges that I face as I paddle around segments of the harbor, there seem to be trolls lurking around the bridges of academia, too.

Right now the trolls that I’m facing are the distractions that pull me away from finishing my dissertation–the largest being the specter of the awful job market, but others include my inner perfectionist that needles me with reminders that the dissertation will never be as good as I wanted it to be.

Every morning as I plan my day and make my “To Do” list, I realize that some choices I make keep me on a straight and safe course, while others bring me dangerously close to wrecking my boat as I let the current pull me this way and that. And some days I don’t get anywhere–eschewing the list of daily tasks and paddling around in circles rather than making measurable progress toward my end goal.

035:365 Braided Bones., originally uploaded by mind on fire.

A gift to my lover, upon celebrating 20 years of togetherness (he wrote the poem for me 8 years ago).

I just wish that I’d thought to black out one of these legs from mid-femur on down.

This letter is prompted by two recent visits from LDS missionaries. One was two nights ago, when I was knocked out on drugs and could barely register what was happening in the living room. Apparently the elders came by “just to visit” people on the ward list. John politely explained that he’s not a member of the church and said that our family has officially requested “no contact” with the church. He asked the elders to pass that information on to the powers-that-be in the ward, given that our earlier request was not honored. The letter below is from the previous of the two visits…

Dear LDS missionaries who helped me carry my groceries in the rain:

First of all, it was very nice of you to help me–particularly with that box of clementine oranges that I was grasping awkwardly with two fingers while having 3 or 4 bag handles draped over each arm. It was obvious I was about to lose some oranges, so the help was very considerate.

I liked how genuinely surprised you seemed when I greeted you each as “Elder” and asked where you came from. That you were both from rural Utah didn’t surprise me very much–you both looked pretty intimidated by the heathen graduate students milling around our neighborhood. When you found out that I was nearly done with my PhD, one of you asked for suggestions for a good college major. I replied that a degree in engineering might be a good way to support a family. Then you both looked at each other and admitted that neither of you can do math.

It probably seemed like the reason that I didn’t invite you in after you helped with the groceries was because I was busy. But it really was because I didn’t want the conversation: the one where I would explain about apostasy, about not going to church for awhile. And about institutions and inequity and history. About needing a new place to call home. About wounds. About the kinds of life experiences that couldn’t be articulated to two young boys who don’t even know what to study in school.

I wanted your memory of the afternoon to be one of rescuing a fellow Saint who was about to lose her oranges. Not of a lost soul for you to pity.

And when I prayed, as you walked away in the rain, that you would avoid the doors of my neighbors who have been the most hurt by the Church’s influence…that was one of my most sincere prayers in quite some time.

Love,
Jana

Alice’s garden, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

Let me just say first that I’m not writing this because I’m seeking sympathy, or pity. It’s just one facet of life as an amputee, and since one of my primary aims of blogging here is to discuss the experiences of my different body, that’s why I’m writing this post.

A few times a year, I get the phantoms. I’ve mentioned them occasionally on my blog before. There’s not much of a pattern to when they happen, except that I’ve noticed they are more likely to occur when I’m dehydrated or sick. They were pretty bad when I was pregnant, too.

Generally, I don’t think being an amputee is all that painful. As long as I’ve got a prosthesis that fits well, my pain level is probably not all that different from anyone else who’s heading towards middle-age. Of course, when my leg isn’t fitting well or when I’ve got pressure sores or rashes on my stump, that’s a bit of a different story. But I’m lucky not to be experiencing any of those problems right now.

The past few days we’ve had a cold/flu bug going around our family. Yesterday I pressed on with my regular schedule despite feeling pretty cruddy. And then it hit me right around dinner time–the nerves in my right leg started spasming. The level pain is pretty close to what I felt when I had labor contractions before my babies were born. It starts in my leg and causes my entire body to shake for a few seconds. To be fairly descriptive of how it was feeling yesterday, it was as if someone had poked a metal wire up along the side of my femur bone and then ran a jolt of electricity through that wire every few minutes. Oddly, the pains are different each time it happens. It used to feel more like my toes were being twisted off one-by-one. Or that someone was ironing the bottom of my non-existent foot.

There are a few remedies that work–walking helps, as does some pressure on my stump or a warm shower. But really the only thing I’ve found that truly helps is a dose of a strong muscle relaxant. So that’s what I took last night, and then slipped into sleep, only waking occasionally to note that the spasms were becoming weaker as the night wore on. When I awoke this morning I felt stiff and sore in my right hip, with just a very faint metallic-tingly feeling. As if my leg had “fallen asleep” and was just waking up.

I don’t know how other amputees experience phantom pains. Those I know, I’ve never thought to ask. It’s not something that I think about very often, or that impacts my life in any huge way. It just happens sometimes. And I don’t think I’m particularly heroic for having endured phantom pains–we all have these little tricks that our bodies play on us once in awhile. Whether it’s lower back pain, that trick elbow, or the arthritis that gets to us when it rains. I figure we’re all just doing the best we can and some days that means we have to take it easy for awhile.

crane taking off from Spider Island at high tide, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

Spotted this crane heron while paddling on Saturday and was lucky enough to capture him just taking off (most likely my fault–my boat is nearly 20 ft long and the strong current was carrying me a wee bit close when I snapped this).

The scratch on the ama was on my mind when I went out again this morning. I work pretty hard to keep my boat in good condition–taking good care of her so she’ll do her best for me. I hate to see her get dings and scratches. And then I had this ‘aha’ moment: the best way to keep my boat in ‘pristine’ condtion would be to keep her stored away safely. She can’t help but show some wear if I keep taking her out on the water. And it was right then that I decided to wear out my boat–by paddling regularly and hard. Of course, I’ll still be on the watch for floating tree trunks…but I won’t stop getting out on the water just because I’d like to keep the pretty paintjob.

The other thing that was foremost in my thoughts as I paddled this weekend, was the news that I got on Friday: our division was canceled at the World Champs because too few teams could afford the trip to New Caledonia. I knew this might be a possibility because several teams had already pulled out. But the final news was pretty disheartening. I’ve used that upcoming race as a “carrot” to keep up my practicing and cross-training all winter long. And I was so looking forward to paddling the waters in the South Pacific in May. But of course I still aim to do so…someday.

So now I need a new carrot, a new goal to work towards. It might be a special race or reward for reducing my per-mile speed by a specific amount. I’m not sure yet. But if you have any good ideas, I’m all ears. (oh, and I’m also looking for a new way to ring in my biggest birthday yet now that I’m no longer planning to win me a shiny medal that week).

And just like the inevitable scratches on my boat, I’m sure I’ll continue to encounter a variety of bumps as I continue paddling–canceled races, bad weather, damaged boats, etc. But if I was gonna let the challenges stop me, I’d never have gotten back in the canoe on that memorable first race…

Three years ago I outed myself as a blogger–to both the folks in my department and beyond, as I started using my real name online in places that could link back to my identity as a graduate student. Prior to that, my blogging was something that I did on the side, pseudonymously. However, for a variety of reasons, it seemed time to meld my online and real-life identities.

Two years ago I wrote a post on my History blog about the “seduction” of the blogging life, and how it was an asset to my work as a scholar. I explained,

Yet what I find the most seductive about blogging is the continued experimentation. It’s a challenge to find something new to say every day and to find new ways of saying it (especially when my life is just a mundane mix of grad school, parenting, and spiritual seeking–it’s hard to imagine more boring story fodder). So I have to think about how best to ‘hook’ my readers, how to provoke a response, and how to write with such skill that my posts are linked by larger blogs.

Now that I’m addicted to blogging, I wonder how it will affect my professional life. Though I’m a few years from facing the job market, I can’t help my think that search committees might be put-off by my flower photos and rambling observations. Often I vow to stop blogging and focus my time on more legitimate academic pursuits (just think, people, of all the book reviews I could be writing instead of blogging!).

But then I consider this: Blogging lubricates my writing muscles. Pounding out a two-paragraph post during my morning latte primes me for a day of historical inquiry…

Now, I’m finding myself in a place where I’m a bit weary of blogging. Certainly that’s a strange confession in a blogpost! But it seems as though blogging doesn’t carry the same excitement for me that it once did. It might be because I’ve become an avid tweeter, or because I’ve been at this blogwriting gig for nearly a decade and I’ve run out of things to say. Or maybe it’s because I spend so many hours at the computer with my academic work, when I have some moments of discretionary time I want to do something wholly different (like read poetry). Surely it’s a phase that will soon pass. But it feels fairly odd to me right now, knowing how enthusiastically I blogged in years past.

in love, in spring, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

From Audre Lorde’s “Thaw”
(for those of my friends in colder climes who are ready for spring)

The language of past seasons
collapses pumpkins in spring
false labor slides like mud
off the face of ease
and whatever I turn my hand to
pales in the sun.

We will always be there to your call
the old witches said
always said always saying
something else at the same time
you are trapped asleep
you are speechless
perhaps you will also be
broken

Step lightly all around us
words are cracking
off we drift
separate and syllabic
if we survive at all.

sweet peas, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

A friend recently posted this poem to her Facebook page, and I just love it…(and as for the picture, I am dreaming of sweet peas a lot these days–because mine are not yet flowering…)

Introduction to Poetry
Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.