March 12
I reckon it’s likely a function of age, of arriving at a certain point in the trajectory when you do some accounting & take the measure of the currents running around you, the loose ends you’ve ignored, the errant sinuous goals & projects left undone, the gravid light of newer dreams just beginning to blossom. & so I weigh these things against each other, let my grip loosen around some, clutch others the tighter for it, let the entire thing shift how it wants to, how I want it to. & lately, the object is to open a space wherein my actual desires can take root & flourish, where I can cultivate them & work towards them in tangible ways, make them my goals, & adhere to the plans that will bring those goals to fruition. All to say those goals seem to be solidifying these days, around a few specific things, or persons, or dogs.
It’s odd, my enthusiasm for life has worn a curious garb these many years. It seems to me I’ve used certain goals to justify the absence of others, plugged in academic ends to free me of the responsibility of determining what else my heart was after. In school, goals are readymade & overt, & it doesn’t behoove one to stray & wander, but stray & wander I have, & now those goals seem less important to me. I have been in Alaska for two years, & now I will finish my degree, & then, a few years down the line, I will run the Iditarod. One of these means a great deal more to me than the other, & I bet it’s not too terribly difficult to discern which.
Here’s the thing: I have a visceral connection to my life up here that I’ve not felt before. Maybe studying theory wrestles that away from you, & leaves you always stuck in an unbroken circle of hermeneutics that promises no respite from the preoccupations of thought. Maybe not. Either way, what I sieved through my head I now don’t sieve at all, & I feel the effect of that keenly. That kind of devotion to thinking acts as an accidental devotion to a certain kind of distance by default, it seems—I found myself constantly reconstituting experience as it was occurring, shaping it into a narrative, extrapolating from it, representing rather than engaging with what was presented. Thought during those peak academic years was a kind of buffer that hedged me against everything else, including, likely, that looming question of what else I might want to do with myself. I don’t guess that’s particular to me—that’s how careers are constructed, as I understand it, wrought of a single-mindedness & devotion to purpose that is predicated on exclusion to some degree. But of a sudden now I’m getting to a point where I’d like to just go ahead & do what I love to do for a living. I just have to patiently figure out how best to achieve that. & what it is. I loved teaching, but I have to say, its best moments were always the ones wherein the organization collapsed & I found myself just having a passionate conversation with my students on equal footing. I don’t imagine I could ever take myself seriously as an expert in anything anymore, & that would present a formidable hurdle if I were to suddenly rekindle any academic spark. Conversely, everything that I do & love here requires familiarity & humility in equal measure. You don’t go outside when it’s forty below without preparing yourself, but neither do you go outside when it’s forty below with the intention of conquering the winter. You are always at the mercy of what is external to you, & it seems so far that the best moments here interweave openness to the prevailing ambiguities of circumstance with conscientious preparation. & I am fortunate to have an incredibly competent & humble teacher in these matters, who I also happen to love dearly, & with whom I share all of these passions, every single one. Move away from all that you know, work in a fish processing operation & then go be homeless for a little & bathe in a river, & then head to over six million acres of wilderness, endure a slowly collapsing engagement, live with a troll & then on the other side of a dark winter, lo & behold, you find quite by chance someone who loves all the things you love & dislikes all the things you dislike, who happens to be wonderful & happens to love you back. After all that reducing, all of that stripping bare, all of that self-reckoning, to turn & find these newfound enthusiasms mirrored & augmented so beautifully? Jesus Christ, how could I go back to a city & teach business & technical writing?
So, there’s some future-wrangling going on here, some sounding the depths, some loose plans being shifted around & put into place. & here is the absolute best part: there is no compromise involved whatsoever, nor settling, nor resignation. It seems a fine & ongoing addition of dream on to dream, over & again. How it will take shape I’m not entirely certain, but I’m not too terribly impatient about that. Drafting up possibilities that are in fact possible in spite of how extraordinary they seem is quite enough for the time being.
It’s odd, my enthusiasm for life has worn a curious garb these many years. It seems to me I’ve used certain goals to justify the absence of others, plugged in academic ends to free me of the responsibility of determining what else my heart was after. In school, goals are readymade & overt, & it doesn’t behoove one to stray & wander, but stray & wander I have, & now those goals seem less important to me. I have been in Alaska for two years, & now I will finish my degree, & then, a few years down the line, I will run the Iditarod. One of these means a great deal more to me than the other, & I bet it’s not too terribly difficult to discern which.
Here’s the thing: I have a visceral connection to my life up here that I’ve not felt before. Maybe studying theory wrestles that away from you, & leaves you always stuck in an unbroken circle of hermeneutics that promises no respite from the preoccupations of thought. Maybe not. Either way, what I sieved through my head I now don’t sieve at all, & I feel the effect of that keenly. That kind of devotion to thinking acts as an accidental devotion to a certain kind of distance by default, it seems—I found myself constantly reconstituting experience as it was occurring, shaping it into a narrative, extrapolating from it, representing rather than engaging with what was presented. Thought during those peak academic years was a kind of buffer that hedged me against everything else, including, likely, that looming question of what else I might want to do with myself. I don’t guess that’s particular to me—that’s how careers are constructed, as I understand it, wrought of a single-mindedness & devotion to purpose that is predicated on exclusion to some degree. But of a sudden now I’m getting to a point where I’d like to just go ahead & do what I love to do for a living. I just have to patiently figure out how best to achieve that. & what it is. I loved teaching, but I have to say, its best moments were always the ones wherein the organization collapsed & I found myself just having a passionate conversation with my students on equal footing. I don’t imagine I could ever take myself seriously as an expert in anything anymore, & that would present a formidable hurdle if I were to suddenly rekindle any academic spark. Conversely, everything that I do & love here requires familiarity & humility in equal measure. You don’t go outside when it’s forty below without preparing yourself, but neither do you go outside when it’s forty below with the intention of conquering the winter. You are always at the mercy of what is external to you, & it seems so far that the best moments here interweave openness to the prevailing ambiguities of circumstance with conscientious preparation. & I am fortunate to have an incredibly competent & humble teacher in these matters, who I also happen to love dearly, & with whom I share all of these passions, every single one. Move away from all that you know, work in a fish processing operation & then go be homeless for a little & bathe in a river, & then head to over six million acres of wilderness, endure a slowly collapsing engagement, live with a troll & then on the other side of a dark winter, lo & behold, you find quite by chance someone who loves all the things you love & dislikes all the things you dislike, who happens to be wonderful & happens to love you back. After all that reducing, all of that stripping bare, all of that self-reckoning, to turn & find these newfound enthusiasms mirrored & augmented so beautifully? Jesus Christ, how could I go back to a city & teach business & technical writing?
So, there’s some future-wrangling going on here, some sounding the depths, some loose plans being shifted around & put into place. & here is the absolute best part: there is no compromise involved whatsoever, nor settling, nor resignation. It seems a fine & ongoing addition of dream on to dream, over & again. How it will take shape I’m not entirely certain, but I’m not too terribly impatient about that. Drafting up possibilities that are in fact possible in spite of how extraordinary they seem is quite enough for the time being.
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