If Thoreau were alive today, he'd be incredibly old. He'd have to remove thick-witted comments from On Walden Pond like, "The old have no very important advice to give the young . . . They have told me nothing, and probably cannot tell me anything to the purpose." Of course, he published his most famous work when he was approaching 40, and probably thought he was still a young pioneer, inventing the world from scratch as he went along.
The fact is, none of us invent much of anything, unless we're named Gates or Allen. The rest of us are either doing what our ancestors did, but with new stuff, or recombining old materials into novel ways of doing business. While our grandparents drove to town once a week behind a horse or ox to sell produce or eggs, we drive a Honda to town daily to earn money so we can buy produce or eggs. The rent or mortgage on the farm or condo must be paid, whether then or now. It's all the same letters, just in a different order.
Anyway, good old Thoreau and I are spending the weekend together, tying his experiment to Transcendentalism, 19th century religious expression, and Kant's Categorical Imperative. Thoreau might be upset if he knew a single woman was devoting all her arts to him! At least in his early pages, he seems to be a judgemental prig, with nothing good to say about anyone except the very poor and the Indians. Nonetheless, he has inspired generations of young, middle-class adults to go back to the land, whether they knew anything about farming, shelter, plumbing, or animal husbandry. A close reading of the first chapter of Walden should be enough warning that going back to the land is not all Starbucks and video games, but perhaps that's what the author intended.
The editor of the edition I'm reading says that Thoreau had a wicked, veiled sense of humor. Perhaps the "back to the land" folks figured that out. I hope for at least some of them, it was sooner, rather than later.
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Something in the Academic Air
After all these months, several of my fellow students are still mulling over what they want to do with their lives. While one is heading for pharmacy school, another is headed off to naturopathy training, and the best writing partner ever is signed up for physical therapy school, a lot of folks still are gathering brochures, wandering through Web sites, and talking to people in various industries.
It must be catching. As I may have said in previous posts, I began school thinking I had it all figured out: get the BA in English, get the MA in teaching English as a foreign language, get the PhD in something useful, and look for a job at a small university. Teach a lot, publish academic research articles as neccessary, repeat. It was a lovely plan. It's just not the right one -- or not totally the right one.
Here we are, in the summer before my senior year (does my age make me a double senior?), at the moment I should be planning when to take the GRE and gathering grad school applications, and I'm still not sure what I want to be when I finally, finally grow up.
Despite the legendary blankness of my memory when it comes to remembering names of philosophers and details of philosophical theories and arguments, I am most totally absorbed by bioethics. But, most grad schools offering advanced degrees in the field require that one be concurrently enrolled in an MD or MNS program. One program might take me, but it's on the other side of the country.
I could just take the BA and go back to writing science and research news releases for a university somewhere -- Kansas State is hiring -- but do I want to settle for what I used to do? The same argument militates against going back to broadcast journalism. And so does my gut.
A good friend has advised that I spend the weekend reflecting and praying about this. Since I choke up every time I think about taking a final step in one direction or another, that seems like a good idea.
If you'd like to comment or advise, please send me a note. I had no idea that indecisiveness was catching.
It must be catching. As I may have said in previous posts, I began school thinking I had it all figured out: get the BA in English, get the MA in teaching English as a foreign language, get the PhD in something useful, and look for a job at a small university. Teach a lot, publish academic research articles as neccessary, repeat. It was a lovely plan. It's just not the right one -- or not totally the right one.
Here we are, in the summer before my senior year (does my age make me a double senior?), at the moment I should be planning when to take the GRE and gathering grad school applications, and I'm still not sure what I want to be when I finally, finally grow up.
Despite the legendary blankness of my memory when it comes to remembering names of philosophers and details of philosophical theories and arguments, I am most totally absorbed by bioethics. But, most grad schools offering advanced degrees in the field require that one be concurrently enrolled in an MD or MNS program. One program might take me, but it's on the other side of the country.
I could just take the BA and go back to writing science and research news releases for a university somewhere -- Kansas State is hiring -- but do I want to settle for what I used to do? The same argument militates against going back to broadcast journalism. And so does my gut.
A good friend has advised that I spend the weekend reflecting and praying about this. Since I choke up every time I think about taking a final step in one direction or another, that seems like a good idea.
If you'd like to comment or advise, please send me a note. I had no idea that indecisiveness was catching.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Shiny Every Day
The past few weeks are blurring together. More assignments, more presentations, more books than I can recall, and now, at the end of the school year, a strong sense of saying goodbye.
The feeling of farewell comes from a number of events. The Japanese student I've been tutoring for eight months takes the TOEFL exam and heads home this weekend. She's made such amazing progress, for which I can take little credit. If Mari goes home with a little too much American independence in her spirit, I may have to take the blame for that.
Yesterday I presented a philosophy paper for Scholars' Day, an annual event that features scholastic presentations from across the entire campus. After all the months of writing, preparing a PowerPoint, bracing for difficult questions, and practicing, it's over. Since it was also my late father's birthday, I got a little emotional on my way home. Luckily, my friend Sandra came down to see my presentation and have dinner with me before I started the commute, so I didn't feel totally awful.
Seniors are graduating, and I'm not sure who I'll see on campus this fall. Seniors no longer wander college campuses wearing funny little hats, so you can't tell them from the rest of the students. In this week before finals, we all look exhausted and baggy in the face -- even the freshmen.
Next week my philosophy professor, who has inspired everyone in Ethics so much, is heading off to Europe to present his doctoral thesis. Tomorrow is our last regular class day, and that may make me tear up, too. I won't get to take another philosophy class from him, and other students will need to have dinners with him to hash out their papers next fall. I guess that means I'll have to read all those philosophers on my own -- which may have been the point of the classes. Tomorrow also will be my last class with Trevor, who I met my first day of school. He's graduating from the English program, and I've learned a lot about the culture of the department from his perspective.
The choking up is not all sentiment. A large part of my emotion stems from having to do four presentations, in front of large numbers (over three people is a large group) of students and professors, in just over seven days. I usually don't cry at weddings, and most sentimental songs leave me cold, but make me write papers and present them for too many days, and I weep like the traditional little old lady with the lace hankie.
One more looooooong paper and three finals, and the waterworks will shut down for the year, I most sincerely hope. Once I get a few nights' sleep, I'll be able to watch the most romantic movies known to man without even a tiny tear. Then I'll go back to being as Mari sees me, in her words: "shiny every day."
The feeling of farewell comes from a number of events. The Japanese student I've been tutoring for eight months takes the TOEFL exam and heads home this weekend. She's made such amazing progress, for which I can take little credit. If Mari goes home with a little too much American independence in her spirit, I may have to take the blame for that.
Yesterday I presented a philosophy paper for Scholars' Day, an annual event that features scholastic presentations from across the entire campus. After all the months of writing, preparing a PowerPoint, bracing for difficult questions, and practicing, it's over. Since it was also my late father's birthday, I got a little emotional on my way home. Luckily, my friend Sandra came down to see my presentation and have dinner with me before I started the commute, so I didn't feel totally awful.
Seniors are graduating, and I'm not sure who I'll see on campus this fall. Seniors no longer wander college campuses wearing funny little hats, so you can't tell them from the rest of the students. In this week before finals, we all look exhausted and baggy in the face -- even the freshmen.
Next week my philosophy professor, who has inspired everyone in Ethics so much, is heading off to Europe to present his doctoral thesis. Tomorrow is our last regular class day, and that may make me tear up, too. I won't get to take another philosophy class from him, and other students will need to have dinners with him to hash out their papers next fall. I guess that means I'll have to read all those philosophers on my own -- which may have been the point of the classes. Tomorrow also will be my last class with Trevor, who I met my first day of school. He's graduating from the English program, and I've learned a lot about the culture of the department from his perspective.
The choking up is not all sentiment. A large part of my emotion stems from having to do four presentations, in front of large numbers (over three people is a large group) of students and professors, in just over seven days. I usually don't cry at weddings, and most sentimental songs leave me cold, but make me write papers and present them for too many days, and I weep like the traditional little old lady with the lace hankie.
One more looooooong paper and three finals, and the waterworks will shut down for the year, I most sincerely hope. Once I get a few nights' sleep, I'll be able to watch the most romantic movies known to man without even a tiny tear. Then I'll go back to being as Mari sees me, in her words: "shiny every day."
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Return of the Cold Call
Throughout my assorted careers, I cordially hated the cold call. Even at my first real job, clerking in the Dayton's Department Store Gourmet Shop, walking up to a customer fondling a fondue set made me feel very shy. As a radio reporter, calling anyone for an interview, or even just opening the mic to go on the air, would sometimes make me tremble. And let's not talk about television news. Please. Watching that red light on the camera come on the first few (and also last few) times was enough for this lifetime.
Everyone always tells hereditarily shy people to think of the worst thing that could happen, which, in the case of a radio news story, would be the interviewee hanging up, after calling your mama a few choice names. Unfortunately, that happened to me a few times. Expecting the worst and being happy with whatever happened instead never seemed like a reasonable strategy to me.
Anyway, decades later, I still get jumpy over making certain phone calls, and I never send out an email on impulse. I plan what I say on the phone, and I type slowly to prevent missteps. However, my communication nerves may be getting better.
Over the past few weeks, I've sent off emails to two eminent living philosophers because I couldn't find the actual journal articles they wrote on topics in one of my upcoming papers. In both cases, the notes were polite, solicitous, and respectful -- much as you would expect from a lady who is risking having to re-write a 12 page paper if she can't find the right journal articles. Amazingly, both philosophers responded within an hour with attachments, urls, and personal notes.
Is this cool, or what? No wonder dedicated sales people like their jobs: when a cold call pays off, it really does.
Of course, this could be what the pros in the ethics game call beginner's luck. Never mind. I'll take it, and hope my luck holds until the end of the semester. That would be six-and-a-half weeks.
Everyone always tells hereditarily shy people to think of the worst thing that could happen, which, in the case of a radio news story, would be the interviewee hanging up, after calling your mama a few choice names. Unfortunately, that happened to me a few times. Expecting the worst and being happy with whatever happened instead never seemed like a reasonable strategy to me.
Anyway, decades later, I still get jumpy over making certain phone calls, and I never send out an email on impulse. I plan what I say on the phone, and I type slowly to prevent missteps. However, my communication nerves may be getting better.
Over the past few weeks, I've sent off emails to two eminent living philosophers because I couldn't find the actual journal articles they wrote on topics in one of my upcoming papers. In both cases, the notes were polite, solicitous, and respectful -- much as you would expect from a lady who is risking having to re-write a 12 page paper if she can't find the right journal articles. Amazingly, both philosophers responded within an hour with attachments, urls, and personal notes.
Is this cool, or what? No wonder dedicated sales people like their jobs: when a cold call pays off, it really does.
Of course, this could be what the pros in the ethics game call beginner's luck. Never mind. I'll take it, and hope my luck holds until the end of the semester. That would be six-and-a-half weeks.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
The Unexpected
Much to my surprise, I am learning to like, and indeed love, many things that used to make me cringe. Years ago, I would have been depressed to spend an entire weekend writing a paper -- particularly one on persistent vegetative states. I used to avoid thinking about brain damage and its consequences, but now that I'm approaching the issue as the focus of an ethics issue, it's intriguing. This doesn't mean that I'm about to finally sign my advance directive -- I'm still too squeamish for that -- but much to my surprise, I'm finding the philosophical issues fascinating.
It used to be that I'd get very excited over the idea of going out with some cute guy. I'm almost embarrassed to say that the emotional high point of the week was receiving four ethics documents via email.
I used to be very much the bright-lights-big-city sort of girl, but now I'm making time each day to stare at Puget Sound, play with a puppy, and eat a quiet meal. With the stress levels so high at school right now, these are self-protective behaviors, along with the daily aerobic exercise.
How terribly wholesome. I'm sure these changes aren't entirely permanent.
It used to be that I'd get very excited over the idea of going out with some cute guy. I'm almost embarrassed to say that the emotional high point of the week was receiving four ethics documents via email.
I used to be very much the bright-lights-big-city sort of girl, but now I'm making time each day to stare at Puget Sound, play with a puppy, and eat a quiet meal. With the stress levels so high at school right now, these are self-protective behaviors, along with the daily aerobic exercise.
How terribly wholesome. I'm sure these changes aren't entirely permanent.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Fall Semester is Finally Over
It's been a while since I posted, and I really have a great excuse: post-scholastic trauma disorder. I had no idea that finishing off a semester would be so exhausting. Although I only had two exams during finals week, the last exam was the toughest.
The Ethics exam brought our class together in a way that the group projects never did. We were meeting on a regular basis, comparing notes, looking at the mid-term exam answers, arguing about exactly what Aristotle said, in contrast to what Plato and Kant said, and generally working ourselves into a collective intellectual froth. Fortunately, Father Pratt let us bring a 4-by-6 card into the classroom for the test. I filled mine up with outlines for the essay questions, reminders for the definitions, and lots more in a font labelled "teeny-tiny." The only thing I had not figured on was writer's cramp, something that doesn't usually happen at the computer. I lost about five minutes of exam time trying to convince my right hand that it didn't want to cramp up before I finished writing the essays. I drove home that night with my left hand, and spent the days before Christmas recovering from the mental and physical stress.
Amazingly, I got an A in the class. Plus, the professor liked the term paper, but wants me to do some more work on it, for further use.
Since then, I've been to Seattle for two different Christmas celebrations, and I've hung around the house, catching up on bills, baking Christmas cookies, watching movies, and doing the cleaning that was suspended in the final weeks of fall semester. Fortunately, most people don't drop in when you live this far out of town, so the mess has been missed.
Spring semester is loitering on the horizon, of course. Books have already been assigned by two of the professors, so I've purchased them and tried to start on Mary, Queen of Scots, but my enthusiasm has been a little low. Perhaps older students need a deadline to get the reading done.
The Ethics exam brought our class together in a way that the group projects never did. We were meeting on a regular basis, comparing notes, looking at the mid-term exam answers, arguing about exactly what Aristotle said, in contrast to what Plato and Kant said, and generally working ourselves into a collective intellectual froth. Fortunately, Father Pratt let us bring a 4-by-6 card into the classroom for the test. I filled mine up with outlines for the essay questions, reminders for the definitions, and lots more in a font labelled "teeny-tiny." The only thing I had not figured on was writer's cramp, something that doesn't usually happen at the computer. I lost about five minutes of exam time trying to convince my right hand that it didn't want to cramp up before I finished writing the essays. I drove home that night with my left hand, and spent the days before Christmas recovering from the mental and physical stress.
Amazingly, I got an A in the class. Plus, the professor liked the term paper, but wants me to do some more work on it, for further use.
Since then, I've been to Seattle for two different Christmas celebrations, and I've hung around the house, catching up on bills, baking Christmas cookies, watching movies, and doing the cleaning that was suspended in the final weeks of fall semester. Fortunately, most people don't drop in when you live this far out of town, so the mess has been missed.
Spring semester is loitering on the horizon, of course. Books have already been assigned by two of the professors, so I've purchased them and tried to start on Mary, Queen of Scots, but my enthusiasm has been a little low. Perhaps older students need a deadline to get the reading done.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Pardon Us -- We All Have the Crud
Right now, no one on campus feels well. If it's not H1N1, it's a cold, or bronchitis, or para influenza, or mean little headaches. All the illness may be the result of the late-semester realization that we all have more papers to write than we have brains to create them with.
One friend, also an English major, has toted up his assigned pages: he needs to write 70 altogether before the middle of December. Unless I'm not aware of some surprise lurking in a syllabus, I have about 35 pages due soon -- but I'm only in my junior year.
Writing an argumentative research thesis is a heck of a lot different from writing radio or print news or magazine articles. For one thing, one actually has to take a side -- which feels totally unnatural after all those years of emulating Cronkite and Murrow at their best. It feels wrong to take a stand and argue for it out in public, without presenting the argument for the other side in its entirety. Murrow and Cronkite were most famous for the times when they spoke out and stepped away from the neutrality of the good reporter; their objections to the Viet Nam War and the McCarthy era persecutions of liberals had weight because they had been trusted neutral but watchful observers throughout their careers. Those were the reporters I wanted to emulate in my small-town way. As they say in Philosophy classes, if you must take inspiration outside yourself, emulate the highest model.
And choose a deserving target.
One friend, also an English major, has toted up his assigned pages: he needs to write 70 altogether before the middle of December. Unless I'm not aware of some surprise lurking in a syllabus, I have about 35 pages due soon -- but I'm only in my junior year.
Writing an argumentative research thesis is a heck of a lot different from writing radio or print news or magazine articles. For one thing, one actually has to take a side -- which feels totally unnatural after all those years of emulating Cronkite and Murrow at their best. It feels wrong to take a stand and argue for it out in public, without presenting the argument for the other side in its entirety. Murrow and Cronkite were most famous for the times when they spoke out and stepped away from the neutrality of the good reporter; their objections to the Viet Nam War and the McCarthy era persecutions of liberals had weight because they had been trusted neutral but watchful observers throughout their careers. Those were the reporters I wanted to emulate in my small-town way. As they say in Philosophy classes, if you must take inspiration outside yourself, emulate the highest model.
And choose a deserving target.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Weather is Lying to Us
The sunset is fabulous: I can see the water from where I'm working this evening, and the sunlight is turning a mellow color like the skin of a pear, while the water is reflecting the blue, blue sky. Tomorrow we're supposed to have sunshine again, and on Saturday the high will be close to 90. We shouldn't be falling for this stage dressing, though. This sunny forecast is lies, all lies. The truth is sitting there on the lawn, as blatant as an Adam Sandler movie. The first toadstools of fall are popping up all over the place.
The spiders know all about this, of course. They've been congregating in my apartment. I'm refusing to sublet. As a matter of fact, I'm squishing the spiders and flushing the remains. Then, of course, I do one of those girly "Ewww -- Ick!" things where I jump up and down for a few seconds. I just so do not like the way their bodies crunch. Maybe by winter I'll have adjusted to their moving in.
Heck, by winter I may have come up with a way for them to take over the rent.
Schoolwork is running ahead, often with me running behind as fast as I can. Despite the school bookstore being unable to stock enough of the books for some classes, the reading and other assignments need to be done. By the second week of class, some of us are still scrambling to come up with copies of the various assigned books. Week 3 is coming up fast, and I don't feel inclined to be patient. Do you hear, Barnes and Noble?
Perhaps they respond better to persuasive letters. Missive #1 will be written Monday night if I can't find my English and Philosophy texts on the shelves by then.
In the meantime, I hear the seductive voice of Dr. Faustus calling from my backpack. All 154 page of him, due at 9 tomorrow morning, with discussion topics. Yep, the glamourous life of the single coed in the state capital.
The spiders know all about this, of course. They've been congregating in my apartment. I'm refusing to sublet. As a matter of fact, I'm squishing the spiders and flushing the remains. Then, of course, I do one of those girly "Ewww -- Ick!" things where I jump up and down for a few seconds. I just so do not like the way their bodies crunch. Maybe by winter I'll have adjusted to their moving in.
Heck, by winter I may have come up with a way for them to take over the rent.
Schoolwork is running ahead, often with me running behind as fast as I can. Despite the school bookstore being unable to stock enough of the books for some classes, the reading and other assignments need to be done. By the second week of class, some of us are still scrambling to come up with copies of the various assigned books. Week 3 is coming up fast, and I don't feel inclined to be patient. Do you hear, Barnes and Noble?
Perhaps they respond better to persuasive letters. Missive #1 will be written Monday night if I can't find my English and Philosophy texts on the shelves by then.
In the meantime, I hear the seductive voice of Dr. Faustus calling from my backpack. All 154 page of him, due at 9 tomorrow morning, with discussion topics. Yep, the glamourous life of the single coed in the state capital.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
The First Week
Bits of my old life keep falling away. Last night, as I was lugging all the books, notebooks, and assorted stuff into the house, my Northwest Hospital commuter cup fell on the ceramic tiled kitchen floor and broke. Not a big deal, but another link to the person I used to be.
The person I've become in this first week of school is struggling. I misread my class schedule, so I missed the first sessions of both Math and Ethics. Amazingly, I'm not behind in Math: I read the chapter and wrote the haiku. Ethics, though, is another matter. Father Pratt used words I hadn't heard in years, and there are a lot of things to catch up on. So far, I've written two tiny little essays in the composition book, unfortunately in a cramped version of my usual scrawl, and read the first chapter in a really good book titled Why Can't We Be Good?; next I need to read the Crito and create a rough draft of a research paper by Tuesday. So what will topic of the paper be, you ask? To allow the part of my soul with an inclination toward evil to speak, damned if I know.
Seriously, I recommend reading Jacob Needleman's book. Why Can't We Be Good? addresses the only philosophical question I've ever cared about; having worked with some monumentally unkind people and observed how they treat each other, the questions addressed in the book speak to daily experience. So many questions, like, does every driver in Olympia believe they must tailgate at all times, boil down to the title of Needleman's book.
The English classes are moving along. This holiday weekend, I get to read Faustus twice, read four essays, write two summaries, read four chapters and complete a take-home test -- all due Wednesday. The 18-year-old me would be thinking this could all wait until Tuesday evening, but the incredibly ancient me needs to get this stuff done, if at all possible, today -- tomorrow morning at the latest. After a week of trying to improve my time management skills, I am ready for a day or so when life just happens. I think it might be called Labor Day.
The part-time job has turned up a surprising bonus: I've lost two pounds in the last week. Either watching people eat depresses the appetite, or I really was a slug before I started school. The slug hypothesis, to create a really bad pun, carries the most weight.
The person I've become in this first week of school is struggling. I misread my class schedule, so I missed the first sessions of both Math and Ethics. Amazingly, I'm not behind in Math: I read the chapter and wrote the haiku. Ethics, though, is another matter. Father Pratt used words I hadn't heard in years, and there are a lot of things to catch up on. So far, I've written two tiny little essays in the composition book, unfortunately in a cramped version of my usual scrawl, and read the first chapter in a really good book titled Why Can't We Be Good?; next I need to read the Crito and create a rough draft of a research paper by Tuesday. So what will topic of the paper be, you ask? To allow the part of my soul with an inclination toward evil to speak, damned if I know.
Seriously, I recommend reading Jacob Needleman's book. Why Can't We Be Good? addresses the only philosophical question I've ever cared about; having worked with some monumentally unkind people and observed how they treat each other, the questions addressed in the book speak to daily experience. So many questions, like, does every driver in Olympia believe they must tailgate at all times, boil down to the title of Needleman's book.
The English classes are moving along. This holiday weekend, I get to read Faustus twice, read four essays, write two summaries, read four chapters and complete a take-home test -- all due Wednesday. The 18-year-old me would be thinking this could all wait until Tuesday evening, but the incredibly ancient me needs to get this stuff done, if at all possible, today -- tomorrow morning at the latest. After a week of trying to improve my time management skills, I am ready for a day or so when life just happens. I think it might be called Labor Day.
The part-time job has turned up a surprising bonus: I've lost two pounds in the last week. Either watching people eat depresses the appetite, or I really was a slug before I started school. The slug hypothesis, to create a really bad pun, carries the most weight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)