Snow Day

Today's snow day makes this the end of a four-day weekend. Snow days are pretty special treats; there is nothing like feeling the dread of dragging oneself out of bed melt into pure jubilation at an unexpected day off. Like Saturdays and Sundays, however, they have a distinct day-off arc. It starts with the initial jubilation - of sleeping in, savoring the warm bed, anticipating all the wonderful things one can do with a whole day off. I always celebrate this with coffee; day-off coffee is a different animal than weekday resuscitate-my-brain coffee. It's a luxurious affair, best if coupled with cookies and enjoyed in bed. Usually the coffee is followed by some loafing (hanging out in bed, surfing the internet, etc) until I get a little restless and make a plan - to read, to run, to write, to grade, to plan, to cook, to clean, and everything else. I think about all the things I'm going to do, and I feel very powerful, exhilarated. Then, I can be productive for about 3 or 4 hours before the slow slide into evening begins. Once evening starts creeping up (which, on my schedule, is somewhere between 2 and 4 pm), my zeal for accomplishing things tends to give way to a zeal for eating things, sleeping, or trolling around on Facebook. And by the time evening is in full-force, I'm usually a little nostalgic about the morning. All those glimmering possibilities! Sigh. It's time for a glass of wine. And instead of dreading the next day, I try to take some comfort in the inevitable: "Daily dawns another day;/And I must up, to make my way." (from Dorothy Parker's "Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom")

American Precedents

Today, Presidents' Day, I wrote in my journal about two triply-named people who have been floating around in my mind: William Carlos Williams and Anna Deavere Smith. Enchantingly rhythmic names! I plucked the WCW off the shelf before getting in the tub. I mistakenly took In the American Grain, one of Steve's books, for a collection of poetry, and once I was in the bath and realized that it is actually a book of essays (eww), I was stuck with it. So I turned to the second chapter, "The Discovery of the Indies," because its margins were the most full of endearing notes and definitions in Steve's collegiate handwriting. Despite the very un-PC use of the word "discovery" and the very out-of-style rendering of Columbus as a man of unquestionable virtue and courage, the chapter fascinated me. In fact, it saved Don Cristóbal from villainy - in my mind at least (or at least until the next time I read about his atrocities?). Or if I must be less dramatic, it made him into a person for me, a person inevitably endowed with the heaviness and grandeur of history, but still a person, and all the more fascinating for that. For the first time, I imagined him as a foreigner, an Italian in the Spanish court. He pledged loyalty to another country's government, faced death innumerable times in service to that government, and - like most foreigners - was quickly betrayed and forgotten by that government. In this respect, Columbus's story does reflect a part of the American story. In this respect, he was the first "American", the first child of the nation that the clash of cultures would eventually yield. As WCW wrote, "With its archaic smile, America found Columbus its first victim."

Then, there is Anna Deavere Smith. As research for my Playwriting course, I watched her performance, Four American characters, on TED.com. I really loved it; I can't wait to show it to my students and can't wait to see her latest show, Let Me Down Easy, here in Philly next month. Like WCW, ADS was channeling America, teasing out what's been missed before. She is a roaring, inspiring, purposeful female artist, and she gives me a lot of hope for the next generation of female artists, writers, and activists. I am just getting this prescient feeling that there is a surge of them out there, unwritten wonders nascent in their hearts, thousands of history's villainies still unredeemed by them. If WCW can redeem Columbus and ADS can redeem an inmate, who else will be saved once the surge floods? And I see this as a surge of women particularly. Because I look at the women in my life, and I see driven, educated people who have a sense of purpose anchored in carefully considered values and supportive, meaningful relationships. I look at the men in my life, and many of them seem lonely and adrift. Maybe WCW had purpose and values and strong relationships. Maybe it used to be that men were the ones with meaningful, generative relationships while women languished in isolation in the home. But it is not so now. Now, women have sustaining relationships and access to education and opportunities. And men . . . well, of course men have just as much access as ever, but it seems so much harder for them to cultivate sustaining relationships. And I have to believe that these are a critical font for creativity, productivity, writing, art. I just think women have an incredible amount to offer to culture and society, and I'm thrilled to watch it unfolding in America.

First Post

Lately, I've been feeling restless stirrings to write on Sunday evenings. These stirrings are so much better than my usual Sunday evening fare - dread, anxiety, self-loathing - that I've decided it is high time to honor them with a graduation from journal to blog. So, assuming it is important to be very cozy when one sets to writing a blog, I am swathed in my comforter, sunken into my couch, snuggled next to my husband, and on my way.

The title of the blog is taken from my journals (where else?). When I was a teenager, I often ended my long, questioning, angsty entries with "I'm on my way." It was a comforting way to close - with some peace, some affirmation, some perspective, some forward-leaning hope. And with this blog, I hope to continue on the path that I have been forging over the last fifteen years in my journals - ascending to giddy heights, dropping off sudden precipices, charging through the woods, wallowing in the mud, getting overwhelmingly lost, looping back again. I've written my way through every phase of my life, every transformation, and my journals have been like close friends, or rather, a way for me to be a close friend to myself. I'm looking forward to sharing this part of my life with my other close friends and to writing with purpose and/or passion for anyone else who might be reading.