(Re)Balance

June 4, 2019 aimeemorrison1 Comment

When I’m feeling scattered and panicked, like I’m all fizzy brain and frazzle plan, reactive instead of active, there’s a little yoga exercise I do. I’m doing it a lot, because it’s conference season and I spun really fast from my very first Trudeau Foundation Summer Retreat / Institute for Engaged Leadership in rural Québec right back out to Congress in Vancouver. A lot of people I know are in similar situations, bouncing from one thing to the next, high speed, scattering powerpoints and nametags and boarding passes as they go.

This might be you, too. You might like my yoga trick, then.

I call it the re-balance. I roll myself heavily from standing down into a loose forward fold, legs a little wider, knees more than a little bent, back snake-y, arms hung long from unstructured shoulders. I literally hang out. I feel the blood shift through my neck, my face, making my head feel heavier and warmer. I contemplate my toes. My arms get heavy. My thighbones push back deeply into my hip sockets. My outer hips stretch long, an unexpected sensation. The big glute muscles in my butt and the hamstring muscles in the backs of my legs wake up, producing more unexpected sensations. I just haaaaaaaang ooooooouuuuut for a bit, notice the shift in perspective, in my body, and then in my head. Good. We could stop here. Forward folds are yoga’s chill pill. This might be enough. Catch your breath. Take a pause.

But there’s more. With as little movement as I can, I shift my weight forward in my feet, and feel how my body compensates to keep from falling over. One toe or two push a little harder, one little muscle on the side of my shin fired up. When I find this new micro-balance, I shift again, back or to the right or to the left, unsettling and then finding anew my balance. If I’m a bit tippier than usual, I might spider-out my fingertips onto the floor to help me feel where the balance comes from. And more: now I close my eyes, and do it all over again: the balance and the proprioception is different without the visual cues. I’ll shift my upper body. Or straighten my knees maybe, or deepen their bend.

The longer I do this, the more I feel my soul coming back into my body, the more my breathing will slow, my heart rate even out, my panic subside. The more I feel … what? Not so much control, but a sense of purpose or at least agency. Groundedness. I am aware of the little muscles in my feet, the little movements made possible by the little spaces between my vertebra, uncompressed and flipped. By just stopping, and attending to my feelings of overwhelm by addressing them through stillness and and little movements and gentleness and attention, I remember that, actually, I can stop.

I can stop.

I remember, too, that my big clever fancy brain is just one part of who I am, that this brain is for feelings as much as it is for Big Ideas. That this brain is not just attached to but a fundamental part of my body, that my body has needs, needs for movement, for stillness, for variety, for food, for the sensation of sunshine on my belly and smoothed out beach rocks under my back. That I’m not just eyes for reading, but eyes to look up from where I’m standing, to get a little dizzy at the bigness and the farness of the mountains that surround us here. Ears not just for taking in words but for birdsong, for the multi-dimensionality of space and scale and distance evoked by the tips of very tall trees in the wind, a muffled highway, the dampening effect of leaf litter on footfall, the hither-and-yon rustling of ferns and scrub in the undergrowth right next to me, or fifty feet away.

So much of academic work seems to press against, to dissolve our boundaries, to disrespect them in some fundamental way. Thou shalt have no other god than reading, and that for 12 hours a day. The emails must be answered right now. You are only as good as the next thing on the horizon, the next brass ring. Faster. Better. Don’t show weakness. Academic work is always more more more in ways that leave us less and less and less sure of who we are, what we want, and even what we need.

Stop.

Take a minute. Come back to yourself. You can do my little exercise in a chair. You can do it without folding over, even. Maybe you can do it in child’s pose, or by spreading your arms far up above you or gently out to the sides, or by rolling your neck every so softly and with care. Maybe you just close your eyes wherever you are and feel your own breath disappearing down into your body and then appearing again on its exit. Maybe you breathe and send a little wyd? do all the distant and tiny bits of your body you’ve been not paying much attention to because so many reason.

Come back to yourself. Feel where the edges of your body mark a boundary of care: this is you, from that roughened callus on your writing finger, to the twinge in your knee from your characteristic sitting posture, to the softness of your heels after your did that peeling foot mask last week, that feels so nice when you shimmy your foot into your sandal with your hands in the morning. All of this is you, and you deserve to take care of you. Once you find your edges, let your own little inner voice squeak its tentative message from your core. Let the little voice be amplifed in the hollows of your quieted bones. Listen.

My voice was saying: stop.

Stop.

I have been to exactly one panel at Congress: the one I was presenting on. I brought my everything to that, stayed to answer questions, to ask questions, to listen to people’s stories and ideas.

I had a lovely dinner with a friend from grad school who is studying for her PhD now and living her life. I joined up with a girl gang I only ever get to hang out with on Teh Intertubes, and had a gossipy, affirming supper. I walked 7km to get there because my body wanted to. I had a long unplanned wide ranging sit down coffee chat with a colleague from years and years ago. I met a new friend and we learned about each others’ research and celebrated our recent triumphs. By chance I ran across a new friend and Trudeau Scholar on the lawn outside my residence and we sat on the grass and chatted for just a few minutes. I’m having naps to try to work through a violent chest cold I kept telling myself I didn’t have time for.

I have another post about conferences and the politics of going to panels or avoiding them. There’s some structural questions to think about there but right now the most important thing was: stop.

I’m taking the time to write this post. I wanted to share my little yoga exercise with you, if it would feel good in your body. And I wanted to share my own little vulnerability, to overwhelm and status anxiety and FOMO and always-more academic culture, to tell you that my little voice said stop and I listened and it’s been so valuable and I’m getting so much out of the conference because of it, rather than despite it.

I know you would take care with those you love. Yes. Keep doing that. But today, if you can, or if you need to, and if you can make it happen somehow take care. Of you.

Your little voice has something to say, and it’s pretty wise.

affect · sabbatical · self care · selfcare · Uncategorized

Guest Post: Sabbatical Life Lessons, Part I

November 8, 2018November 1, 2018 melissadalgleish

Today’s guest post is from Colleen Derkatch, an associate professor of English at Ryerson University. Part I was written while Colleen was on sabbatical. Part II, in which Colleen reflects back on the lessons she learned on sabbatical and how she’s applying them now that she’s back on campus, will be up next week–stay tuned!

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Last fall, inspired by Melissa Dalgleish’s post, “Why Can’t We Be Our Whole Selves as Academics?” , I reflected very publicly in a Twitter thread about my own experience as a recently tenured Associate Professor:

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Focussing on the pervasive culture of overwork in academia, I described being flattened by exhaustion by the time I got tenure, my body wrecked in all the ways chronic stress can wreck a body. Naturally, my ability to feel guilty and anxious remained undiminished, having been fine-tuned over my years of grad school, adjuncting, and pre-tenure work, so I was not only exhausted but also hardwired to feel guilty and anxious about it. Perfect.

I’m pretty sure my own disposition and work habits contributed to my wrecked post-tenure state but the very structure of academe seems designed to fail those who study, work, and try to live within it. These structural problems are stuff for another post but, if academia almost wrecked me—a person with quite a bit of privilege as a cis het white woman on the tenure-track, working at a relatively humane institution, with generous extended health benefits, and living in a dual-income household—then what does it to do my less privileged colleagues? Universities seem pretty uninterested in finding out.

And I was left to pick up my own pieces.

So I made a promise to myself (and the Internet) about how I would use my sabbatical:

Derkatch-Hook-and-Eye-image-2

I’ve just passed the halfway point in my yearlong leave so let’s see how I’ve done so far, shall we?

What I looked forward to most about sabbatical was the opportunity just to be curious again. Our day-to-day engagements with scholarship are often instrumental, with little time for deep reflection: many of us have to zoom through course prep and marking (because there’s so much of both) and read the literature in our fields selectively and strategically (because there’s so much of it, and because our jobs valorize writing, not reading). And so, in the spirit of intellectual renewal, I gathered a stack of books I’d been wanting to read and headed to the tropics to spend 2 weeks gloriously alone, reading.

Except I wasn’t alone: for the first time since my comps (in 2004!), I was able to luxuriate in the voices and ideas of others, following wherever they took me without any thought about how I would use them in my own work. Freed of my everyday obligations, there was nothing else I “should” be doing, not even writing, because that wasn’t the purpose of the retreat. As the days went by, I felt myself unfurl and de-clench, little by little—forehead, jaw, neck, shoulders. Lingering in others’ thinking pushed mine in new and exciting ways. And because reading involves input, not output, my retreat fed my tired soul.

By the middle of week 2, however, the anxiety and guilt crept back. As my departure neared, I wondered: Had I been productive enough? Was the trip a good use of time? Did it justify abdicating my Mom duties?

Lesson 1: De-clenching takes time and requires ongoing practice.

Lesson 2: Reading retreats rule.

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Overall, I’m happy with my academic progress since the fall: I produced an article from scratch (now accepted and in press), I submitted a grant application (I got it!), and now I’m deep in research for my next book. More importantly, however, I found my curiosity again and have incubated it in the warm pocket of space and time that sabbaticals give. But how will I maintain that precious curiosity when I return to the everyday demands of my job? And what about my progress as a person, putting myself back together? I didn’t realize until this year how intertwined those two things are, that for me to be a functioning academic I need to be a functioning person.

I see now that I got burnt out partly because my identity was so deeply bound up in my work, even though I’d thought I wasn’t one of those academics. But if you spend enough time in grad school, on the job market, and on the tenure track, you really do start to see yourself as measurable only by your productivity. Our academic lives are defined by metrics: teaching evaluation scores, CV lines, impact factors, citations, granting agency scores. I had to learn new ways to measure my life.

Lesson 3: You are not your CV (obvs, yet often hard to remember).

And that’s how I found myself this January, at 41, back in figure skating lessons. And taking French classes. And working with an academic coach. Things finally began to click: the person in me started to wake up.

I took my last skating test in 1990, before I got too cool as a teenager to skate. I always wanted to go back and finish my tests but felt I was too busy as an academic and a parent. What’s more, this may be Canadian sacrilege but I find figure skating aesthetically ridiculous so I was reluctant to admit to myself that nothing beats the way it feels to skate well on the ice. But I promised myself I would spend more time this year doing things that feel good so now I hit the ice every Sunday with a crew of other adult skaters and I practice for my first test in 28 years. I’m no Tessa Virtue but I’m trying to embrace my awkwardness. And I love it.

Lesson 4: Do what feels good, even if it means looking goofy or falling on your ass. Especially if it means that.

The French class, I’m taking because my kid is going to full-French school next year and I should probably be able to understand some of what’s going on, and also because speaking French is just a good life skill to have. Being on the other side of the classroom again is a total trip. I got so sweaty with nerves during my placement interview, conducted in my rusty French, that I thought I would cry. Now I have piles of homework to do and my daughter is thrilled to help me with it. The role reversal is oddly comforting.

Lesson 5: It’s good to sweat it out in the student’s seat.

Finally, I’ve tried more consciously to round out my life, which means cooking more, getting more sleep, taking evenings and weekends off, saying no to social things I don’t want to do, and perhaps most importantly, hiring a coach for my academic work (thanks for the recommendation, Aimée!). My wonderful coach Rebecca works like a project manager, helping me plot my short- and long-term goals into realistic schedules that keep me on-target and unfrazzled. I’ve never felt more calm and focussed in my work and I don’t feel like I’ve been working very hard but my word count tells me otherwise. Now, you might think of the coach as benefitting me academically but, more importantly, I would call this one a win for me as a person: if I can get though my days without crushing guilt and anxiety, the whole-self me wins.

Lesson 6: You don’t have to do it all by yourself all the time.

So that’s where I’m at seven months into my sabbatical. I’ve made progress as both an academic and a person, and I’ll keep at it over the next five months before I dive back into the fire come September. Hopefully I’ll be ready for it.

Alright, I’ve got French homework to go do.

advice · gradschool · guest post · ideas for change · public engagement · selfcare

Guest Post: The Perks of Saying Yes in Grad School

February 7, 2017April 19, 2017 bjohnstone1

A few months ago, a mentor offered me the chance to speak with three established scholars about Bob Dylan’s recently awarded Nobel Prize in Literature at a small gathering in New York. Instantly, my stomach began to turn. Beyond basic pop culture exposure (hello, “Soy Bomb”), I didn’t know much about Dylan. I don’t study the great American songbook, lyric poetry, or contemporary artists. There was too much room for error and there were too many gaps in my knowledge. It felt like a no in my bones.

Instead, I said yes. After stalling for a few days, I came clean about my reservations with my mentor and asked for his guidance to make the right decision. He told me that in his experience there are two types of academics, “the ones who say, ‘I don’t know, I don’t think I can do that…’ and the ones who say, ‘Sure, why not, let’s give it a try.’ I have many friends who are the former, but the ones who are most successful are the latter.” After that email, I had no choice but to put my nerves on hold.

My initial anxieties were just that. During the talk, it became clear that the audience members, many of whom were scholars, weren’t Dylan experts (just like me). These were members of The New York Society for General Semantics, people who get together over wine and cheese every so often to discuss and learn more about the contingency and formation of meaning, symbols, and knowledge. Dylan fans, seasoned academic professionals, and a smattering of undergraduate and graduate students filled around 25-30 seats. I invited my father, who dutifully sat in the front row. I realized that my role was to give this diverse group something to riff off of—throw out some new notes that might harmonize with their own memories and knowledge of Dylan and literature.

Dylan’s win, and his initial silence after the announcement, had created definitive buzz, especially since he is the first American songwriter to take the prize (which includes $900,000). The New York Times said that the selection “redefin[ed] the boundaries of literature,” while others sounded off angrily on Twitter. There was plenty of debate already circulating for music lovers and literary scholars alike, so, to prepare for the evening, I reflected on the questions provided on the event flyer and decided which one’s I could speak to confidently.

I started with “What is the literary value of Dylan’s lyrics?” and drew on my knowledge of the history of literary criticism to give an overview of different ways that artists and critics have determined what makes poetry worthwhile. After a few weeks of listening to Dylan during my commute, I picked out what I felt were his most compelling and challenging lines. To answer the question “What is the meaning and significance of the Nobel Prize?” I thought back to conversations in my survey courses regarding the politics of canonization and reviewed trends in the Nobel’s literature award, briefly scanning past selections. I came up with some reasons why I thought Dylan deserved it, but also reflected on the fact that most of my generation would be more familiar with the Beatles rather than Dylan’s songbook.

I was honest with myself about my limited knowledge, which pushed me to uncover interesting research finds and make connections between Dylan and all of the things I do know about literature and literary criticism. Being honest with my audience about my “outsider” perspective made the environment more welcoming and inclusive. No one batted an eye when I flubbed the title of Dylan’s ode to Johanna or read from a prepared cheat sheet of lyrics. They didn’t care if all the notes were right, only that there was talk about music filling the room. I kept my preparation time under control, and in the end, I had fun. That night reinvigorated my enthusiasm and appreciation for what I do every day, largely because so many people appreciated my willingness to join in a conversation with them. I also have a wider net of contacts in a supportive intellectual community that I can reach out to.

Saying yes when it seemed easier to say no reminded me that the life of the mind is not just about finding a niche, but also building communities of learning. The more I insulate myself from opportunities because they don’t align specifically with my research, the farther away I’ll be from the most rewarding part of my chosen career. These realizations extend to my approach to the job market as well. When search committees request an immense repertoire of specialties, it’s easy to assume that my lack of expertise in one or more areas will disqualify me from consideration. (Generally, men are more likely to apply for these kinds of job listings, whereas women tend to balk, not wanting to appear unprepared.) As a hiring committee chair at a small liberal arts college recently shared with me, committees know that candidates can’t always tick all the boxes: they want to see that you’re willing to extend yourself and your research interests to fit their needs. They want to know that you’re willing to say, “Sure, why not, let’s give it a try.”

Graduate students (and particularly women) have been taught a repertoire of maxims to live by so that they can navigate a long and often arduous road to degree: Practice self-care; you can’t always say yes; know your limits. From completing a dissertation, to teaching our students, to braving the job market, and caring for our friends and families, we are also taking on additional tasks that can complicate an already overburdened schedule, often without compensation or the promise of professional rewards attached. We are, for example, writing recommendation letters, volunteering for committees and organizations, attending students’ games and concerts, dropping by department functions, applying to grants and conferences, and trying (repeatedly) to get published. If dissertation writing is the healthy regimen we are supposed to be sticking to, graduate school is an all-you-can-eat buffet of distraction. Learning to say no is important, and it can save you hours, semesters, and even years of putting your research on the back burner.

In the past, I wouldn’t think twice about saying no to things that didn’t align with my current research project or specialization. It turns out that impostor syndrome is an effective way to free up our schedules, but doubting our own potential can also keep us from opportunities that stand to benefit and invigorate us more than the things we end up saying yes to with ease.

For the sake of my sanity, my dissertation, and my students, I will, of course, continue to say no. But for the sake of my outlook on academia and my career, I have a new perspective on when and why to say yes.

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Callie Gallo is a fourth-year PhD candidate in the Department of English at Fordham University. She worked in broadcast television for a number of years, and is much happier now just watching TV from the comfort of her couch. Her research focuses on new technologies and gender in nineteenth-century American literature, more specifically looking at how people talk about bodies at work in modern industries and economies. She is thinking about taking up karaoke again as a means of coping with the state of the universe and loves a good DIY project.