I went into my first stats test confident that I knew the material (I did). I had worked through the test prep that was given to the class, several times. I was not nervous, nor did I feel like I should be. I was ready. The test itself was quite different from the prep material, and although it was a lot more challenging, I still felt good about it. That's until I saw my posted grade a few days later...83. My initial reaction was to cry. Then I got angry. Then I kept bouncing back-and-forth between the two. I don't know of a worse feeling than when I've put incredible amounts of effort into my studies and then my grade doesn't reflect it. No amount of crying (or swearing) is going to change my score.
But this is where I have made a connection to this growth process I am in...my grades have become my identity. I have put my worth in a grade book, in an A, a B, a C, or an F. Am I the sum of my grades? Am I valuable even when the most I can achieve is a D?
My husband reminds me quite often, during those times (multiple times a week) when I want to throw my books in a fire, log off of Blackboard, e-mail my professors and scream, "I QUIT", that this is more about the process than anything. It's not about my individual assignments, tests, or homework. It's about the big picture. That's pretty hard to keep in focus when I have a syllabus that says my tests are worth twenty percent of my grade. GRADE!!!!
Oh how I wish there was a school out there where you learn what interests you, there are no tests to be anxious about, just learning the things that pertain to your passion, and grades aren't the focus, just the learning process.
In the meantime, I must succumb to this system if I want my degree. I don't quite know how to detach from the elation of an A and the anger of a C. It's going to be a LONG few years if I don't wrap my brain around it soon. And a lot of ulcers too.
My Family
The people I share my life with
Monday, September 17, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Stats Class - Day 1
It's still summer here in NC and yet, the Fall semester started today. On my schedule...my arch nemesis - statistics. I have done my best to avoid it, and tried to figure out alternatives to complete my math requirements without it. I even considered switching majors so I didn't have to take it. Statistics with the cranky, old man professor sent me packing as a student in the 1990's. I failed it and decided math and I would never meet up again. After twenty years of avoidance and the last seven months of math classes, I am ready to face the stats giant one more time. I am in MAT151 - Intro to Statistics.
Today was my first day of class. The stress has been building inside of me for months, and to be honest, the first few weeks of classes always make me want to run far, far away. Buying books, logging onto class sites, and figuring out what the professor's style and expectations are can be exhausting. But this morning I tried to offset my stress. I set my alarm for 6:00 to get my workout in before I made my way to campus. I felt great and ready for the challenge.
I got to campus and found a parking spot (not always an easy feat) with 20 minutes to spare. As I walked through the doors of the building, I was offered help to locate my classroom by a receptionist. Nice! Room 112 was a short walk from the entrance and there was my kind instructor; a young woman with a pleasant smile and she welcomed me to the class. I quickly met a fellow classmate who has five children of her own and that contact relaxed me even more.
After attendance was taken, the professor dove into the syllabus and I listened to a lecture. It wasn't too bad. In fact, it was almost enjoyable. I can see myself doing well and completing this class successfully. That's a good thing because I will make this trek 3 times a week until the middle of December.
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| My class site where most of my work will be done |
I got to campus and found a parking spot (not always an easy feat) with 20 minutes to spare. As I walked through the doors of the building, I was offered help to locate my classroom by a receptionist. Nice! Room 112 was a short walk from the entrance and there was my kind instructor; a young woman with a pleasant smile and she welcomed me to the class. I quickly met a fellow classmate who has five children of her own and that contact relaxed me even more.
After attendance was taken, the professor dove into the syllabus and I listened to a lecture. It wasn't too bad. In fact, it was almost enjoyable. I can see myself doing well and completing this class successfully. That's a good thing because I will make this trek 3 times a week until the middle of December.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Back to Reality
I thought the drive to and from Maine would never end. Other than the road trips, we had a wonderful summer vacation away from our everyday lives here in NC. Memories were made and relationships were nourished. One of the greatest highlights was our overnight stay in a family member's New York City condo. First Street and 50th Avenue could not be more different from our neighborhood, but it was that change that made the stay so great.
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| Our drive into Manhattan |
We decided to take advantage of the twenty-four hours we had to basque in the city, so of course we walked. We headed to Rockefeller Center, Times Square, and Central Park. Our ambition remained strong until Times Square; it was there when our six year old decided she had no energy left. We urged her on so we could make it to the park of all parks. On our way back to the condo, I started talking with my daughter about what was different about this neighborhood from our own. The buildings were much bigger, apartments are where people live, it's noisy, and there weren't many yards to play in.
The city's beauty was even more evident at night. The lights from the buildings were reminiscent of fireworks - we didn't want to close our eyes and miss something. The energy continued to surround us even during the evening. It truly is the city that never sleeps.
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| The best spot for looking at the city AND for a card game |
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
A Family First
My husband is passionate about baseball. He often talks about his college days and how he would run through a wall to catch a ball if he had to. I'm amazed at how he has found baseball to be a source of growth and inspiration in his life. It isn't surprising that our son has grown to love the game. He started out in tee ball, moved onto coach pitch, and finally Little League.
Over the years, we have watched our buddy go from having a fear of the ball to being asked to participate on a travel team with other eleven and twelve year old boys. At the beginning of the spring baseball season, I could see that he was overwhelmed. He was playing alongside some talented kids and he was a bit rusty after taking the Fall off to focus on his new educational adventure - homeschooling. After a few weeks and a lot of one-on-one work with my husband, my son was playing confidently. His batting average was right up there, and he found a new favorite position; first base.
The biggest change I saw in him, though didn't have anything to do with the mechanics of baseball. His attitude was amazing while he cheered his teammates onto victory and even through defeat. He was a total team player, as he sat on the bench screaming for his friends to succeed. This was when I saw that his passion for baseball was more about the relationships he had on his team. The encourager that I have seen in him since he was a young boy was overwhelmingly evident, and as parents, our hearts were full.
The end of the spring baseball season was thrilling as our son was put on the All Star team and my husband happily coached. The team was part of a local tournament and was the precursor to the big tournament in the following weeks that is the road to the Little League World Series. During the third game of the first tournament, my son was up at the plate and ready to get a hit for the team. Instead, he took a hit and the pitch got him in the forearm. He immediately went down and his arm swelled. Unfortunately, that ball broke his arm (our family's first broken bone) and he couldn't play in the big tournament. Except nothing held him back from doing what he did remarkably well - cheer on his friends. He hardly seemed phased that he couldn't play and was totally content to be the team's support from the dug out. His screams and shouts helped them earn runner up, and put a lot of smiles on many parent's faces.
What a proud moment as a parent. Lord knows I don't take the credit. I make a lot of mistakes in my parental role, but boy am I thankful that good happens in spite of my errors.
Over the years, we have watched our buddy go from having a fear of the ball to being asked to participate on a travel team with other eleven and twelve year old boys. At the beginning of the spring baseball season, I could see that he was overwhelmed. He was playing alongside some talented kids and he was a bit rusty after taking the Fall off to focus on his new educational adventure - homeschooling. After a few weeks and a lot of one-on-one work with my husband, my son was playing confidently. His batting average was right up there, and he found a new favorite position; first base.
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| My buddy's broken ulna |
The end of the spring baseball season was thrilling as our son was put on the All Star team and my husband happily coached. The team was part of a local tournament and was the precursor to the big tournament in the following weeks that is the road to the Little League World Series. During the third game of the first tournament, my son was up at the plate and ready to get a hit for the team. Instead, he took a hit and the pitch got him in the forearm. He immediately went down and his arm swelled. Unfortunately, that ball broke his arm (our family's first broken bone) and he couldn't play in the big tournament. Except nothing held him back from doing what he did remarkably well - cheer on his friends. He hardly seemed phased that he couldn't play and was totally content to be the team's support from the dug out. His screams and shouts helped them earn runner up, and put a lot of smiles on many parent's faces.
What a proud moment as a parent. Lord knows I don't take the credit. I make a lot of mistakes in my parental role, but boy am I thankful that good happens in spite of my errors.
Monday, July 16, 2012
My Urge to Quit
Several years ago I realized I have an awful tendency to quit right when I get to the end of something. It could be as I near the end of a book, a goal such as weight loss, or even a class that I am acing. This desire became very real last year after my impulsive decision to run a 5k with a friend. I saw the finish line and wanted to stop. I wanted to end the challenge right there and justify quitting. I was tired, sore, my lungs couldn't take anymore, and who puts a finish line at the top of an incline? That's just silly! It was during my contemplation to quit when I heard a voice say, "This is what you do. You quit, right at the end. Don't stop!"
Here I am, yet again, at the end of a semester and the want to quit is looming. It reared its ugly head a couple of weeks ago when I realized I had to take a unit test on statistics and probability AND a cumulative final exam for that same class within six days of each other. I'm reliving the incline at the end of that 5k.
After a few hours of studying last night, I turned on my TV and watched the last half of Extreme Makeover Weight Loss Edition. The featured woman had abandonment and rejection issues that she carried from childhood, and with it came a lot of fear. At the end of the show, the trainer gave insight on his client and made a very profound statement that hit me pretty hard. He said, "She was afraid to fail and afraid to succeed." Whoah...that is intense! It made me consider why a person would be afraid of achievement and I think I made a connection; they're afraid to succeed because success will bring them to another place of growth and they could fail in that new place. If I get an A in my class, I move onto additional, more challenging classes, and those have the potential for failure.
Who says failing is all that bad? There is an incredible stigma with it. Yet, I have learned, through my own failures, that it's more about what I take away. My identity isn't wrapped up in what I don't accomplish. Failing doesn't make me a loser. I read somewhere that where you stop or fail, that spot is your new starting line. I can accept that, but I have a lot invested in my education and I won't quit. I need a minute to refocus and remember that I can DO THIS!
After a few hours of studying last night, I turned on my TV and watched the last half of Extreme Makeover Weight Loss Edition. The featured woman had abandonment and rejection issues that she carried from childhood, and with it came a lot of fear. At the end of the show, the trainer gave insight on his client and made a very profound statement that hit me pretty hard. He said, "She was afraid to fail and afraid to succeed." Whoah...that is intense! It made me consider why a person would be afraid of achievement and I think I made a connection; they're afraid to succeed because success will bring them to another place of growth and they could fail in that new place. If I get an A in my class, I move onto additional, more challenging classes, and those have the potential for failure.
Who says failing is all that bad? There is an incredible stigma with it. Yet, I have learned, through my own failures, that it's more about what I take away. My identity isn't wrapped up in what I don't accomplish. Failing doesn't make me a loser. I read somewhere that where you stop or fail, that spot is your new starting line. I can accept that, but I have a lot invested in my education and I won't quit. I need a minute to refocus and remember that I can DO THIS!
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Math: My Love/Hate Relationship
Numbers have been my enemy. I could not escape them no matter how hard I tried. Actually, I used to love math in elementary school. And then I hit junior high. That was when my 30 year hatred for it began. Mixing letters with numbers (algebra) made no sense to me. Letters can be added and multiplied and divided? No.
With my aversion came falling grades. I was frustrated and had no interest in mastering what I began to despise. When I got to high school, it was as if someone was orchestrating my demise in the subject. My geometry teacher was fired half-way through the school year after allowing the class to steal her authority, and my algebra teacher sounded as if he came straight from a Charlie Brown special with his monotone voice and his lack of personality. At the end of junior year, a bomb hit - I failed. I couldn't do extra work or fix this F. I had to accept it and retake the class with the Charlie Brown teacher.
It was that F that solidified my failure status and I walked through the next 20-something years with it written all over me. It impacted how I lived; I was convinced I would fail at everything, so why even try? Relationships, my education, my health and fitness. There were times when I would muster up the courage to overcome those failure thoughts, but for the most part, they always won. My fear of math was solid and I had convinced myself that I was no good at it or anything else. Convinced!
After two miserable years of taking classes at a college and local university straight out of high school, I figured my continued failure was the nail in my educational casket. Over the past seven or eight years, a fire has been ignited to finish what I started and get my BA. But how could I do it without taking math? I tried every way I could think to skirt that obstacle, but it was impossible. Finally, after a few months of home schooling my son and teaching him 6th grade math, I mustered the courage to take a math placement test and begin my math requirements. That test was scarier to me than birthing my children. I had so much anxiety, I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest.
It's only been six and a half months since that test and I am getting close to finishing my second math class. I have gone beyond what I thought was possible. I figured if I achieved C's, I would be content. Apparently I am very good at math. I earned nearly a 100 average in my first class, and I am on track to do the same in my second class.
Here is what my math relationship has taught me: For every fear I have, whether legit or just perceived, I must face them. I had given my fear the power to change my life and with it, permission for me to fall short of who I can become. However, as I have looked fear in the eye, I have seen that it is weak, fear has no right to my life, and I am designed to overcome.
I am amazed at how much confidence is in me just from taking math. While I do not love math and have often said, "If math was a person, I'd punch it" my certainty is a beautiful byproduct that I had never anticipated.
With my aversion came falling grades. I was frustrated and had no interest in mastering what I began to despise. When I got to high school, it was as if someone was orchestrating my demise in the subject. My geometry teacher was fired half-way through the school year after allowing the class to steal her authority, and my algebra teacher sounded as if he came straight from a Charlie Brown special with his monotone voice and his lack of personality. At the end of junior year, a bomb hit - I failed. I couldn't do extra work or fix this F. I had to accept it and retake the class with the Charlie Brown teacher.
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| My math tools that are always close by |
After two miserable years of taking classes at a college and local university straight out of high school, I figured my continued failure was the nail in my educational casket. Over the past seven or eight years, a fire has been ignited to finish what I started and get my BA. But how could I do it without taking math? I tried every way I could think to skirt that obstacle, but it was impossible. Finally, after a few months of home schooling my son and teaching him 6th grade math, I mustered the courage to take a math placement test and begin my math requirements. That test was scarier to me than birthing my children. I had so much anxiety, I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest.
It's only been six and a half months since that test and I am getting close to finishing my second math class. I have gone beyond what I thought was possible. I figured if I achieved C's, I would be content. Apparently I am very good at math. I earned nearly a 100 average in my first class, and I am on track to do the same in my second class.
Here is what my math relationship has taught me: For every fear I have, whether legit or just perceived, I must face them. I had given my fear the power to change my life and with it, permission for me to fall short of who I can become. However, as I have looked fear in the eye, I have seen that it is weak, fear has no right to my life, and I am designed to overcome.
I am amazed at how much confidence is in me just from taking math. While I do not love math and have often said, "If math was a person, I'd punch it" my certainty is a beautiful byproduct that I had never anticipated.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
House of Mirrors
I love, love, LOVE this Ikea mirror. The scrolls, color, and oval design are beautiful. I've seen it all over my favorite DIY and thrifting blogs. Some of the bloggers turn it into a chalkboard or take the mirror part right out of it. Sure, it looks great as a chalkboard, but I still love it as a mirror.
We recently celebrated our second anniversary of moving from New England to the outskirts of Raleigh, North Carolina. I'm amazed that two years have gone by and yet it seems like we've been here longer. Within days of the moving truck being emptied two years ago, we hosted a few of our favorite people. Their visit from Nashville was a welcome distraction from an overwhelmed feeling that was beginning to settle in.
Even though we had our laundry list of things we expected to accomplish on this adventure, I began to sense there was more. It became apparent that our family would begin a transformation beyond what we could comprehend or had planned.
When our friends arrived, I asked one of them to confirm what I was feeling. My friend has an amazing gift at picking up on the unseen - when a person has something going on internally, he can sense that a problem is present. His words to me were that he kept hearing, "house of mirrors" pertaining to my family and this new season we were in. Each one of us would have our issues shown to us through these mirrors. Every time we "saw" our issues, we could respond by acknowledging them or ignoring them, but they wouldn't just go away.
Mirrors, like this Ikea one serve a purpose and can be beautiful at the same time. They're designed to reflect back what gets within distance of them. Needless to say, this house of mirrors has continued and I have grown to welcome them when they pop up. Areas related to our finances, health, use of time, and relationships have been exposed. Each time something is revealed, it isn't easy, but I know they are a road to freedom so I no longer see them as a threat. I know the end result will allow us to be beautifully scrolled and shaped.
Even though we had our laundry list of things we expected to accomplish on this adventure, I began to sense there was more. It became apparent that our family would begin a transformation beyond what we could comprehend or had planned.
When our friends arrived, I asked one of them to confirm what I was feeling. My friend has an amazing gift at picking up on the unseen - when a person has something going on internally, he can sense that a problem is present. His words to me were that he kept hearing, "house of mirrors" pertaining to my family and this new season we were in. Each one of us would have our issues shown to us through these mirrors. Every time we "saw" our issues, we could respond by acknowledging them or ignoring them, but they wouldn't just go away.
Mirrors, like this Ikea one serve a purpose and can be beautiful at the same time. They're designed to reflect back what gets within distance of them. Needless to say, this house of mirrors has continued and I have grown to welcome them when they pop up. Areas related to our finances, health, use of time, and relationships have been exposed. Each time something is revealed, it isn't easy, but I know they are a road to freedom so I no longer see them as a threat. I know the end result will allow us to be beautifully scrolled and shaped.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
I Love Pink
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| Pink summer sandals |
During my birthday trek to Target, I spotted these pretty little sandals. They were on clearance which made them even more lovable! Of course I had to buy them, but I knew that wearing them required a new polish...bright pink to match.
Whenever I see this color I think of how my youngest daughter says the word pink. It sounds like "peenk" and it makes me smile each time it comes out of her mouth. Sometimes we get her to say the word just to hear the sweetness in her voice.
The other thing that goes through my head is one of my favorite quotes spoken by one of my children during a serious conversation with her cousin, "I broke up with pink. Yellow's my new favorite color." How awesome is that? Her love of a color was relational and pretty simple.
As I was shopping I realized that it's important that I find the fun around me. A color can be fun. Flip flops can be fun. The way my daughter says a word is fun. My child's view of the world is fun, and let's face it...clearance at Target is SUPER fun!
Monday, July 2, 2012
Kudzu - Never Heard of it Before
I'm a northern girl. Any travel outside of the Northeast pretty much consisted of a few vacations to Florida, except for my honeymoon to Cozumel, Mexico. My life has been filled with all that comes with raising a family over these last twelve years: diapers, formula, first words, potty training, and all of that has left very little time (and money) for travel and venturing out to see the beauty our country offers.
When we moved our family to the outskirts of Raleigh, one of the first things we saw was this beautiful vine sprawling over the landscapes. In Maine, I was used to seeing ivy grow on chimneys and moving up the sides of homes. It was beautiful in the warm summer months. After we drove here through what looked like a tunnel with this vine on either side of our car, my son immediately recognized it as kudzu, "the plant that ate the south." I found it amazing that he had learned about this plant in school only months before we moved, and yet I had never heard of it before.
This plant was brought to America in the late 1800's by the Japanese government. It was widely distributed and encouraged to grow here in the south. Unfortunately, this plant was brought here without the bugs that help to keep it under control so it grows better here than it does in it's native land. In fact, it's now difficult to get rid of as it is resistant to most herbicides.
As I walk through my neighborhood, it's undeniable how destructive this plant can be. It can grow up to a foot a day and loves to crawl up trees and vegetation allowing next to no light for the trees to thrive underneath. There are spots where trees die and the leaves seem to want to cover the roads. But it's so pretty if you overlook the fact that it kills all that it covers.
I look at just about everything through a different lens these days. I see this plant and think..."hmmm...what can I learn from this?" One thing that strikes me is how I can conceal what isn't healthy by putting on a smile, or work hard to make sure what the people around me see is only good and worth seeing. I can say I'm fine and convince my friends that all is wonderful, but underneath it all is that same destruction like under the kudzu. Why don't I come clean? Because this is what I've always done. Because I think nobody really wants to hear my tale of woe. Because then I become vulnerable and weak in people's eyes. It all boils down to acceptance and approval from a place where it doesn't belong. It is not man who I should look to for approval.
It's amazing that a simple plant has shown me a glimpse of myself. And like all of the things that are revealed to me, I must choose to respond or ignore.
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| Kudzu in my neighborhood |
This plant was brought to America in the late 1800's by the Japanese government. It was widely distributed and encouraged to grow here in the south. Unfortunately, this plant was brought here without the bugs that help to keep it under control so it grows better here than it does in it's native land. In fact, it's now difficult to get rid of as it is resistant to most herbicides.
As I walk through my neighborhood, it's undeniable how destructive this plant can be. It can grow up to a foot a day and loves to crawl up trees and vegetation allowing next to no light for the trees to thrive underneath. There are spots where trees die and the leaves seem to want to cover the roads. But it's so pretty if you overlook the fact that it kills all that it covers.
I look at just about everything through a different lens these days. I see this plant and think..."hmmm...what can I learn from this?" One thing that strikes me is how I can conceal what isn't healthy by putting on a smile, or work hard to make sure what the people around me see is only good and worth seeing. I can say I'm fine and convince my friends that all is wonderful, but underneath it all is that same destruction like under the kudzu. Why don't I come clean? Because this is what I've always done. Because I think nobody really wants to hear my tale of woe. Because then I become vulnerable and weak in people's eyes. It all boils down to acceptance and approval from a place where it doesn't belong. It is not man who I should look to for approval.
It's amazing that a simple plant has shown me a glimpse of myself. And like all of the things that are revealed to me, I must choose to respond or ignore.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
These Shoes Were Made For Walking
Since we moved here two years ago, walking has been my preferred method for fitness. It's easy to work into my schedule and I don't need a gym membership for it. My walks have helped me to stay fit (a big plus) and are times where God shows me who He made me to be, and the big and little things that hold me back from becoming all I can.
I've heard you should replace your sneakers every 800 miles or so. My bank account won't allow that, but I'm ready to put these on and see the roads they will take me both literally and figuratively.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Turn Up The Music
My daughter has been taking dance lessons since she was five. Visions of her in the royal blue tutu, ballet bun, and nude tap shoes still come back to me. The moment I knew she was born to dance was at her first recital. Her group had just attempted their routine to a Disney song and the audience began their applause. I fixed my eyes on my daughter and saw the love of the stage being born right in front of me.
She is nine now and still loves dance. In fact, she just finished a competition season and was able to perform two dances at her recital. For weeks we listened to her latest routine song blaring from her bedroom and the sounds of her feet moving to the music. Her instructor chose Chris Brown's "Turn Up The Music" for the hip hop routine and I have to say, it was fun to hear. It's just one of those songs that make me want to get up and dance.
I have always loved music, yet I'm not a singer. I mean, I can carry a tune and my family used to sing together in churches growing up, but I am confident record companies won't be beating down my door. Something else goes on inside of me when I hear a good song, and I recently realized that it's tied to dancing.
On one of my walks I was reminded of two very pivotal and heartbreaking moments in my young life that had a way of telling me that dance was NOT what a "good Christian girl" should do. I really hadn't given those experiences much thought over the years and had no idea they carried pain inside of me. Isn't it interesting how people around me put so much shame on me that I took a passion and pushed it aside? It makes me sad for the young adult me, but I will not dwell on that. This time of my life is for realizing who I am and for restoration.
My next mission: to dance. Maybe I will sign up for a class or two. Maybe I will just dance my way throughout my day as I do laundry, make dinner, or have fun with the family. However I incorporate it will free me to be who I am supposed to be. You probably won't see me on the next season of SYTYCD...but I will cheer on my daughter as she explores her passion and deepens her love for this beautiful art form.
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| Here is my daughter in all her glory in her first recital. |
She is nine now and still loves dance. In fact, she just finished a competition season and was able to perform two dances at her recital. For weeks we listened to her latest routine song blaring from her bedroom and the sounds of her feet moving to the music. Her instructor chose Chris Brown's "Turn Up The Music" for the hip hop routine and I have to say, it was fun to hear. It's just one of those songs that make me want to get up and dance.
I have always loved music, yet I'm not a singer. I mean, I can carry a tune and my family used to sing together in churches growing up, but I am confident record companies won't be beating down my door. Something else goes on inside of me when I hear a good song, and I recently realized that it's tied to dancing.
On one of my walks I was reminded of two very pivotal and heartbreaking moments in my young life that had a way of telling me that dance was NOT what a "good Christian girl" should do. I really hadn't given those experiences much thought over the years and had no idea they carried pain inside of me. Isn't it interesting how people around me put so much shame on me that I took a passion and pushed it aside? It makes me sad for the young adult me, but I will not dwell on that. This time of my life is for realizing who I am and for restoration.
My next mission: to dance. Maybe I will sign up for a class or two. Maybe I will just dance my way throughout my day as I do laundry, make dinner, or have fun with the family. However I incorporate it will free me to be who I am supposed to be. You probably won't see me on the next season of SYTYCD...but I will cheer on my daughter as she explores her passion and deepens her love for this beautiful art form.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
It's My Voice
Here I am in the Raleigh, NC area with a dream to earn my BA. This was one of the main reasons why we left our friends and family in Maine. I started college right out of high school, back when hairstyles were big no matter what sex you were, and before the internet was commonplace. I saw education as more of a ball and chain than something that could strengthen me and give me direction for my life. It was not about self-discovery - education could not make that connection for me. I needed to live and be free from grades, tests, and assignments. With the new year, a new semester of classes has begun. It became clear that I needed to get back to the basics and get some foundational courses on my transcript. This has challenged me in ways I had not imagined. The core classes have brought up memories of failing math and my lack of knowledge with grammar, yet I am facing those fears with each class I attend, each math test I take, and each paper I write.
Fast-forward from the 90's when I began college, to the new millennium. It was 2005 and my life was all about my husband two children (that was before our Lily-girl joined us). I suddenly felt a desire for education tugging inside of me. Except, alongside that desire was utter fear. How could I take classes with high school graduates? Their smarts will expose the stupidity that had been whispering to me since third grade. I registered for classes; two of them. The classes challenged me and also showed me that I was capable. I could do it. I took one more class, then quit. I looked for reasons not to enroll and my husband offered one; he wanted to complete a two year leadership program at our church. Fear won.
That small seed of desire for my BA never died. In fact, it continued to grow until we made the decision to make it our first priority. It required us to set everything aside and follow that desire all the way to NC in 2010. I have taken a few classes since we arrived and I have done well...but as a non-degree student. My dream of earning my BA came to a screeching halt when I couldn't get into the program I wanted at the university I had my heart set on. No college-level math. No English comp. Apparently these are required when you transfer. They aren't classes you can take once you are accepted. I had avoided these required courses like the plague. Give me a sociology class and I'll ace it. But English? Math? No.
I am one of those people who tends to put the cart before the horse, except, I'm not a ball of energy so when I get the energy - I want to go for it right away. My personality is an interesting combination of melancholy (perfectionism, organization, mood-swings, artistic) and phlegmatic (stubborn, laid-back, hard to motivate). It sometimes feels like I have a split personality as I teeter back and forth between my need for perfect and my, "ahhh...who cares that my shirt is stained" thoughts. My desire to finish my education is no exception of the way I sometimes operate. During energetic times, I find myself saying, "Let's get it DONE and NOW" and then when I'm tired, I utter, "Does my BA really matter?"
Just before Christmas, it was time to register for English Composition and Algebra. I could feel my heart racing as the first day of classes approached. The English course is online, and my math is in the classroom. My experiences as I've walked through this math class deserves it's own post - so I will hold off in sharing those for now. However, one of my first assignments in English was to read a bunch of essays and then answer response questions. The first essay was entitled, "Freewriting" by Peter Elbow. Mr. Elbow is a highly educated man, and by some, is considered to have revolutionized how writing is taught. In one particular excerpt, he is explaining how important freewriting is to a writer. His idea is that we should just start writing whatever comes to mind and not stop. We should tune out our internal editor that wants to constantly delete words while we are in the process of writing and creating. He insists that if we do not tune out the editor, we will never find our voice as a writer because we never fully tap into our creativity. And if we never actually work to find our voice, it may become lost. As I read, I became teary eyed. At one point, I wanted to sit and sob. His words resonated inside of me, not just as a writer, but also the way I live my life. I edit myself constantly and I question whether or not my voice exists. That's part of my hope as I write this blog; to find my voice. Here, in an English assignment, this stranger's words shed a spotlight onto what was going on inside of me. It's almost as though I received permission to speak and to be comfortable with myself.
This journey is not a sprint, but a marathon. It's not even a 5k; it's more like an Iron Man Triathlon. Those are the kinds of races that feel as though they will never end, and that's my life at this moment. I am not just a 40 year old woman earning her degree. It's so much more than that. I get small revelations here and there, and this was one of the many gems that I will hold close as I take each step closer to fulfilling my dream. My voice, the voice God gave me, is slowly emerging and I will hold onto the hope that one day I will walk confidently in it.
Fast-forward from the 90's when I began college, to the new millennium. It was 2005 and my life was all about my husband two children (that was before our Lily-girl joined us). I suddenly felt a desire for education tugging inside of me. Except, alongside that desire was utter fear. How could I take classes with high school graduates? Their smarts will expose the stupidity that had been whispering to me since third grade. I registered for classes; two of them. The classes challenged me and also showed me that I was capable. I could do it. I took one more class, then quit. I looked for reasons not to enroll and my husband offered one; he wanted to complete a two year leadership program at our church. Fear won.
That small seed of desire for my BA never died. In fact, it continued to grow until we made the decision to make it our first priority. It required us to set everything aside and follow that desire all the way to NC in 2010. I have taken a few classes since we arrived and I have done well...but as a non-degree student. My dream of earning my BA came to a screeching halt when I couldn't get into the program I wanted at the university I had my heart set on. No college-level math. No English comp. Apparently these are required when you transfer. They aren't classes you can take once you are accepted. I had avoided these required courses like the plague. Give me a sociology class and I'll ace it. But English? Math? No.
I am one of those people who tends to put the cart before the horse, except, I'm not a ball of energy so when I get the energy - I want to go for it right away. My personality is an interesting combination of melancholy (perfectionism, organization, mood-swings, artistic) and phlegmatic (stubborn, laid-back, hard to motivate). It sometimes feels like I have a split personality as I teeter back and forth between my need for perfect and my, "ahhh...who cares that my shirt is stained" thoughts. My desire to finish my education is no exception of the way I sometimes operate. During energetic times, I find myself saying, "Let's get it DONE and NOW" and then when I'm tired, I utter, "Does my BA really matter?"
Just before Christmas, it was time to register for English Composition and Algebra. I could feel my heart racing as the first day of classes approached. The English course is online, and my math is in the classroom. My experiences as I've walked through this math class deserves it's own post - so I will hold off in sharing those for now. However, one of my first assignments in English was to read a bunch of essays and then answer response questions. The first essay was entitled, "Freewriting" by Peter Elbow. Mr. Elbow is a highly educated man, and by some, is considered to have revolutionized how writing is taught. In one particular excerpt, he is explaining how important freewriting is to a writer. His idea is that we should just start writing whatever comes to mind and not stop. We should tune out our internal editor that wants to constantly delete words while we are in the process of writing and creating. He insists that if we do not tune out the editor, we will never find our voice as a writer because we never fully tap into our creativity. And if we never actually work to find our voice, it may become lost. As I read, I became teary eyed. At one point, I wanted to sit and sob. His words resonated inside of me, not just as a writer, but also the way I live my life. I edit myself constantly and I question whether or not my voice exists. That's part of my hope as I write this blog; to find my voice. Here, in an English assignment, this stranger's words shed a spotlight onto what was going on inside of me. It's almost as though I received permission to speak and to be comfortable with myself.
This journey is not a sprint, but a marathon. It's not even a 5k; it's more like an Iron Man Triathlon. Those are the kinds of races that feel as though they will never end, and that's my life at this moment. I am not just a 40 year old woman earning her degree. It's so much more than that. I get small revelations here and there, and this was one of the many gems that I will hold close as I take each step closer to fulfilling my dream. My voice, the voice God gave me, is slowly emerging and I will hold onto the hope that one day I will walk confidently in it.
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