Prime Numbers

February 1, 2010 I turned 45. I have no idea what 45 is suppose to feel like, but I like what I’m feeling. These are my middle ages.

I figure landing on my 90 birthday still in relatively good health and spirit is reasonable considering the lifestyle I live, my geography, and the incredible gift of good genes from both sides of the family. From here to there is exactly another 45 years stretched out awaiting me to do with it what I like.

It’s not overwhelming or scary in any way. In fact, quite the opposite.  I don’t want to call this a journey, it’s such a cliche and I hate cliches, nor is it a path or destination. And I’m certainly not at the cross roads. 

So instead of worrying about describing where I am, I’ll focus more on what I am.

I am more connected to the things I want to do, the activities that make me happy and reflect my true interests. And I do feel infused with a joy that tells me I am vibrantly alive and comfortable with myself.

I’ve figured out most of us stop ourselves from engaging in the activities we really want to try, no matter how much we would love to do it, because we know we won’t be perfect. Instead, we spend our days plotting, planning, figuring out, trying to navigate and negotiate to make sure when (if) we do make our move everything is perfect, and we look good.

I have come to realize it doesn’t matter. All I’m doing is the best I can from exactly where I am right now. If anyone is out there judging me, well, lighten up! The truth is I’m not perfect, never will be; and neither will you.

The next 45 years will be spent zooming towards the beautiful age of 90 with my perfectly human imperfection at my side. And it feels great.

Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf was born on this day in 1882. She was born into a family of wealth, social standing, with a rich intellectual and literary life. Famous as a novelist, for such works as Mrs Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927), Orlando (1928), and A Room of One’s Own (1929), which she may have been best known for expressing her belief that, ” A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Woolf also found infamy as a member of the ‘Bloomsbury Group: writers, intellectuals, and artists whose work influenced modern attitudes on feminism, sexuality, literature, and criticisam. In addition to her published writings, Woolf was also known for keeping a journal, writing, as many of us do, about the daily happenings of her life. Early in World War II, on March 8, 1941 she wrote:

“And now with some pleasure I find that it’s seven; and must cook dinner. Haddock and sausage meat. I think it is true that one gains a certain hold on sausage and haddock by writing them down.”

Sadly, Woolf’s life was to end as a tragic story. Less than three weeks later, on March 28, fearful of the return of mental illness which had plagued her all her life, she loaded up her pockets with stones and drowned herself in the river Ouse near her Sussex home.

She left a suicide note for her husband, though I have always thought of this note more a love letter than suicide note: 

“I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I can’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier ’til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been. V”

There are many references to food in Virginia Woolf’s diaries, which makes me think she found much pleasure in the simple act of cooking, and being able to write about it. Even though she noted the pleasant anticipation of cooking her wartime dinner, perhaps her diary entry also tells of her awareness of her fragile hold on day-to-day things. Or perhaps it is only through the awareness a writer has to recognize we only begin to understand what we do not know when we begin to write it down.

Happy New Year

I hope that 2010 promises lots of adventure and happiness to everyone.

Although I like the idea of a new year: a fresh start, wide-eyed and full of possibility, I am not big on making resolutions, and this year I seem to have bounded into 2010 with utter abandon. Don’t get me wrong, I do afford a certain amount of detailed focus in both my personal and professional life when it comes to getting done what needs to be done, but this year my stubborn streak has kicked into high gear and I’m putting complete trust in my instincts that guide the direction I’m going. I guess I see things more in terms of ebb and flow rather than a series of beginnings and endings.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t be moving forward on new projects, not to mention following up on a few that dropped off the radar for various reasons over the years.  Instinct tells me they’re still worth pursuing, still as important today as the first day they came to me with stomping feet impatiently waiting for my attention.  

With seven days down, and a few hundred left to go, so far so good with 2010. I think it’s going to be a good one. I’ve got a gut feeling about it!

Cheers,

Carolyn.

Sitting in the Dark

Winter Solstice is unique among days of the year — the time of the longest night and the shortest day – where darkness briefly triumphs. For the Solstice is also a turning point. From now on (until the Summer Solstice, at any rate), the nights will grow shorter and the days will inevitably grow longer; the dark wanes and the Sun waxes. From the dark womb of the night, the light is born. Many of the customs associated with the Winter Solstice derive from stories of a mighty battle between the dark and the light, and early traditions focused on the battle between the dark and the light, and we know both are valuable but somehow we’ve forgotten how to honour the dark before calling in the light, just as in this season when animals hibernate and nature sleeps, we, too, can turn inward. Perhaps we have lost touch with our traditions and tales, and perhaps we have lost our ability to sit within the dark. We have somehow lost our connection to set aside time within the contrived frenzy of the holidays for just  sitting in the dark and quiet. I like to try and spend the entire day of the Winter Solstice in silence and reflection. I also like to use days such as this to learn and reflect on old tales and traditions and the role women were given, and here’s one I came across:In some parts of the Scottish highlands, the head of the household would find a withered stump and carve it into the likeness of an old woman, the Cailleach Nollaich or Christmas Old Wife, a sinister being representing the evils of winter and death. She’s the goddess of winter, the hag of night, the old one who brings death. Burning her drives away the winter and protects the occupants of the household from death. This seems like such a natural time for letting go and saying farewell, to release resentments and regrets into the darkness, knowing they will be transformed. Sometimes I write about them in my journal or write them on slips of paper, and set them free to make my amends amidst nighttime flames. We should never be afraid of the dark, nor should we be afraid to connect with our emotions – the one’s that don’t always begin and end with “just be happy.” Barbara Ehrenreich’s Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Underminded America comes to mind on days such as this. So raise a candle of hope and contentment, and let me know how you celebrate Solstice. I do hope there’s a pinch of cheeky skepticism in there somewhere.

Passions and Pleasures of the Season

 

 

With the taste of a sunny day and the scent of crisp harvest air, with the sweetest of fruits and preserves, and the most tender of savory vegetables, I got in the car and travelled the country roads of southwestern Ontario, with only the shuffling of familiar songs from my Blackberry, and parallel lines of telephone poles and majestic trees guiding my journey.

I know there was a time when canning and preserving were an expected part of the yearly cycle just as spring plowing or fall planting; with aproned women stirring simmering pots on the stove, and groups of women huddling over kitchen tables each perfectly preparing vegetables and fruits, while still others, would stand meticulously over tubs of suds washing and then drying a line of jars, leading up to a finale of each jar carefully filled, sealed and stored away.

I admit to the images I carry with me as I travel these roads to be coloured by a lens of nostalgia and romaticism, but they are also filled with a respect and understanding of the women who survived during long hard economic times, learning how to turn necessity (which can so easily be a chore of crushing spirit) into an expression of optimism, and demonstrating  the practicalities of hope; where every jar of tomatoes became a meal for the future, and each jar of jam a promise of what was once good would be good again. 

Whatever pleasure the rituals of preserving and canning provide me, I am reminded of these women, steadfast in lining up their rows of bounty like tiny little insurance policies against a future want or need.  And even though I know today there is little cost savings attached to my labour of preserving and canning when compared to the ease of strolling down any grocery store aisle, I can’t help but feel a bonding or some connection to a long line of history when I have the urge to be part of that transformation from field to table.

Love the language – the language of love

 Once again back in the classroom; this time, though, I find myself in the role  of both teacher and student. It’s been a while since I last stepped into a classroom as a student, and though it all feels a bit daunting, it’s quite liberating to strip away the skill  and responsibility one builds through years of teaching and find yourself confronted with those subtle feelings of vulnerablity and awkwardness.

Now I find myself writing papers as well as grading them; reading textbooks instead of just assigning them; and taking tests, not just administering them.

I quickly realized while in Paris doing research for my book that my level of French was good, but not quite good enough.  I still haven’t completely conquered conjugating verbs, and sometimes I’ve been known to confuse the masculine and feminine – you know what I mean.  And, well, my enthusiasm of the evening got the better of me one night while trying to explain to a waiter I was cold because of the air conditioning – the odd look on his face leaving the table had me quickly replaying  the exchange in my mind; it didn’t take long for fits of laughter to emerge along with the realization it really was time I better step up my language skill.  There’s no way I could be mistaken for a frigid woman.

But here’s the thing – during the time of the French Revolution, the French didn’t actually speak French. I had to go and read up on this because it seemed so fascinatingly odd. (But that’s part of the joy with researching.) Richelieu set up the Académie française,  (the very body put together to preserve the French language and protect it from the horrors of anglosization) over a century prior to the Revolution.

French was very much the “educated” language throughout 17th and 18th century, which basically meant few outside the main cities could speak it, let alone read or write it. France was full of dialects, and at the time Richelieu set up the Académie in 1634 there were serious concerns that “proper” French would gradually die out. The Académie’s purpose, therefore, was to strive for the purification and preservation of the language.  

So, it seems that in 1789, the Académie fouded by Richelieu had been fighting a long, difficult battle for 155 years, and although the French language was still alive, less than half the population spoke French, worse still, only 12 or 13% of the nation spoke it fluently and in a way that would have met the Académie’s standards. 

I know my enthusiasm will always get the better of me and I quite like that, it makes life more fun. I figure if the French can turn things around and finally learn to speak the language fluently,  properly, and with enthusiasm -  I can, too.

joie de vivre

My "Madame" (Paris '08)

Why speak of such a thing?

Because it involves a kind of love. A love of life, and a love of ideas and insight that can change our lives forever.

Because once we understand joie de vivre we will never abandon it, and never go back to the way we once were.

People have such capacity, and in many cases a lifetime of expertise,  creating negative emotions, and yet  know so little about positve, joyful moments, because they do not know how to define joie de vivre for themselves.

What is joie de vivre?

It is the joy in a conversation, a joy of eating, a joy of anything one might simply do. One can speak of a joie de finesse (refinement, grace, or elegance), joie de réussite (success); but it is also the joy in embracing the strength of our vulnerability that leads us on a path to people and places, and new ways of seeing the world around us. And the simple joy of a dance in the street when everyone is looking, but you simply don’t care.

Women in Power Reveal What it Takes

A terrific resource from the BBC in their “Education” section – entitled “Women in Power Reveal What It Takes.” It includes profiles of Benazir Bhutto, Winnie Mandela and Chandrika Kumatatunga, the President of Sri Lanka.

Excerpt:

“What does it take for a woman to succeed in world politics? Despite the progress there are still few women leaders. Hear these eleven women talk about how they achieved success. Find out what motivates them and how they overcame the barriers they faced.”

 

Read it here: Women in Power Reveal What it Takes

Savouring Summer

I like making plans during summer; planning my garden, get-together barbeques with friends and family, and taking advantage of a slower pace to plan for the rest of my year. But as soon as this holiday weekend approaches I forget about being busy making plans and choose to make time savouring the rest of what summer has on offer.

Here are a few things I’ll be making time for:

• biking around town with no particular place to go
• baking homemade peach pie
• eating ice cream cone before it melts (weather permitting)
• driving down country roads instead of major highways
• walking barefoot in sand as it cools with the setting sun

What are you making time for between now and Labour Day?

Summer School

I’m back in the classroom once again teaching an intersession course on Women and Politics.  The debates whether to call the course Women and Politics, or Gender and Politics are as vigorous within every discipline in the social sciences as the content in the course itself, demonstrating this type of course offering is one of the most energized fields in the discipline of Political Science. And why wouldn’t it be, considering it explores power relations and governance from a perspective that recognizes gender as a politically and socially constructed category. Some of the questions I address include: the unequal status between men and women in political, economic and social affairs and processes; the relevance of feminist theory in understanding historic and contemporary questions of justice, authority and power; the meaning and significance of identities; the implications of a gendered analysis of institutions  such as the state, international organizations, bureaucracy, political parties, social movements and trade unions; and the impact of a gendered analysis of development and underdevelopment, international conflict, globalization, migration and citizenship; ultimately leading to an analysis of public policy in Canadian and global politics.

I have few rules to guide the management of my classroom, but I have a definite style based on certain expectations and aspirations. Most importantly, I insist  none of my students raise their hands to engage in conversation or answer questions put to the class. In my first day of teaching  quite a few years ago I noticed how the male students in the class were at the ready to jump in and respond to whatever the discussion question happen to be – even if they hadn’t a clue what they were talking about, I noted how they were programmed almost to blurt out whatever thought, image or impulse they might have. While the women in my class would sit patiently with their hands raised waiting to  be acknowledged and invited to enter into the discussion; and in that moment I was reminded how we’ve socialized males and females to engage in public discourse. I decided from then on to engage in my own little social experiment. Don’t get me wrong, this is not to oppress the men in my lectures, but more to work towards a level playing field. When I announce on the first day of meeting with a new class what I’m doing and why, I usually find a few awkward stares, hesitation, and sometimes silence when I begin asking questions. A few hands slowly start to emerge, but are quickly lowered, particularly after a friendly reminder from myself at the front of the class. It is hard to break old patterns, old habits. But I love to watch what transpires within a few short meetings. The conversation becomes more dynamic, and the level of engagement in this public mode of discourse  takes on new meaning. I begin to see the free give-and-take between all my students and the inevitable thoughtful debates and discussion, while I facilitate.

I believe passionately in this little social experiment I engage my students with each time I walk into the classroom, and I have seen the results of small steps working to break down some of those powerfully entrenched social barriers we often don’t recognize until little experients like this are made.

How many times have you been in the classroom, a meeting at work, or involved in some other type of public discourse and recognized the disparity between men and women engaging fully? Next time you’re in one of those settings, sit back for a while and really watch – conduct your own social experiment. I’d love to hear your thoughts.