It’s been a whirlwind couple of weeks, without much time to process all that’s been happening. A few weeks ago, I accepted a last-minute one-year appointment as an assistant professor at Framingham State, so I’ve been in the curious scenario of being “new” faculty at an institution where I’ve been teaching part-time since 2012. Right as I was navigating the day-long orientations, benefits-related paperwork, and last-minute schedule changes this surprise appointment necessitated, our cat Snowflake had a medical emergency involving several days in the intensive care unit followed by a labor-intensive, messy, and ultimately doomed recovery period at home.
On Friday night, after I’d survived my first week back to school with my new job title and new responsibilities, we put Snowflake to sleep. Perhaps not coincidentally, Friday night was the first time in weeks I had a full night’s sleep, relieved that Snowflake was out of his misery (and the school year was started) at last. For the past two weeks, I’ve been scrambling to prepare for the semester, scrambling to keep up with the usual errands and chores while making umpteen trips to and from the vet, and just plain scrambling. Too many days have gone by without me finding a spare minute to write in my journal much less blog, and I’ve missed it.
Writing in my journal is how I make sense of my life: you might call it an inexpensive form of therapy. When I don’t have time to write, I feel uprooted, as if my center of gravity has shifted. Psychologists say that happy changes can be just as stressful as unhappy ones, and I agree. I’m happy about my new position at Framingham State, I’m sad that Snowflake is gone after a miserable struggle, and both realities feel stressful: developments I need (but haven’t had time) to make sense of. Writing is one way I stay grounded in the midst of life’s changes, so when I don’t have time to write, I feel scattered and un-centered.
Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living, and I think I know what he meant. When I’m not writing, my life seems both foreign and shallow, an insubstantial and flimsy thing I observe as if from a distance: someone else’s life, not my own. When I’m writing regularly, I feel more present to my life as it unfolds: I’m present and paying attention, inhabiting my own existence rather than watching it flash before me without conscious consideration. Forget about trying to walk in someone else’s shoes: first you have to learn how to walk in your own.
I’ve been writing long enough to know I always come back to it eventually, even (or especially) in the aftermath of upheaval. These past two weeks have felt like the moment when you’ve been unexpectedly plunged into deep water. Your rational mind reminds yourself you know how to swim: after the initial uproar of immersion, your body will naturally and inevitably rise. But in the interim, everything everywhere is fluid, and you can’t tell which way is up toward air. Before your body remembers how to float, first it must fall, and you struggle to see anything that isn’t a blur of bubbles and blue.