Light and Momentary

Caulking the Tub

One day in 2003 I thought to myself, "I'm going to grab the caulking gun and caulk along that spot where the upstairs bathtub meets the floor." This was a task that needed doing -- we could see that there was some leakage from the upstairs bathroom of our ugly little apartment into the downstairs ceiling -- but I am not a person given to spontaneous caulking. There was an unexpected lull in my chaotic life with three small children, and something in brain said TIME TO CAULK THE TUB.

A couple of days later a hose inside our washing machine disconnected itself, and water flooded through the downstairs ceiling. It was a MESS, and getting the machine fixed was such a hassle that I vowed never to buy another Haier appliance. But I kept thinking to myself how much worse it could have been. If I hadn't had that funny little urge to caulk the tub, the water would have poured right through that spot where the bathtub met the floor -- right into our antique set of the Encyclopedia Britannica. 

Shortly after that my husband lost his job. It felt pretty bleak at the time. We had moved across the country for him to take this job, and poof -- it was gone. In the stressful weeks that followed I kept thinking about that bathtub. It was as if God had said to me, "I can mitigate your disasters." I've remembered it ever since. We live in a world full of trouble, but it's surprising how often somebody has caulked the tub.

Remember when I railed about Gina Haspel? During the Trump purges in December she decided, for the first time in weeks, to go to the president's daily intelligence briefing. That decision made it possible for her to keep a pro-Trump extremist out of CIA leadership, even when it looked like a done deal. Thanks for caulking the tub, Ms. Haspel, and I'll keep praying for you to reconsider your position on torture.

Amid the frustrations about the vaccine rollout, it's easy to lose sight of how remarkable it is that we have not one but two vaccines to roll out, with more on the way. It hasn't been that long since we didn't know if a vaccine would be possible, let alone effective. It feels miraculous to me that these vaccines came together as quickly and successfully as they did, and I will not be surprised if some unexpected stories emerge as we go along -- a scientist who decided impulsively to try out a new idea, or to choose Option A over Option B. The pandemic is a once-in-a-lifetime disaster, but the vaccine feels to me like a caulking-the-tub moment.

I am seeing it too in the stories emerging from the Capitol riots. It seemed plenty bad enough as it unfolded, but OH my friends, it could have been so much worse. They narrowly missed crossing paths in a hallway with the very vice-president they wanted to hang. Cleveland Meredith's plans to put a bullet in Nancy Pelosi's noggin were foiled when he needed a minor vehicle repair. (I will pray that he finds Jesus in prison.) I have to tell you, I haven't even been able to read all the way through this Atlantic article. But do you know what it says to me as I squint at it with one eye, as if to keep the stressful bits at bay? Somebody caulked that tub.

Anxiety Report

I am feeling calmer this week, with some thoughts I want to remember. Thought #1: anticipatory anxiety is almost always worse than being in the middle of things. Last week I just wasn't remembering how much I enjoy teaching and interacting with students. It's been a balm this week to have some synchronous classes and to see my colleagues again -- even if everybody does seem frayed around the edges. I love my subject; I love sharing it with students. My department is a good place to be. Those things are true even where there is a pandemic and [gestures wildly at the outside world] and [alludes very vaguely to department stuff].

Thought #2: caffeine is sneaky. I get in a bad cycle sometimes, in which an extra cup of coffee seems like it would help me to feel a little perkier but then it disturbs my sleep, leading to more coffee the next day. I can handle the occasional extra cup of coffee, but a string of extra-cup days inevitably ratchets my anxiety up to 11. There's enough of a lag, though, that I always find myself saying "WHY AM I SO ANXIOUS I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS IS TERRIBLE."

Thought #3: there is something to be said for anticipatory pleasures to offset anticipatory anxiety. I bought a lovely set of washi tape on sale from the Washi Tape Shop, and I enjoyed the whole process immensely: the choosing, and the waiting, and the opening of the pretty little box covered in Japanese characters, and the sticking-down of the first piece.

Thought #4: there is also something to be said for crafting as stress relief. Here is the pandemic blanket in its current state:

It spent the summer and the fall on hiatus because that is a lot of wool to pile in one's lap, but I am moving along on it again now here in the bleak midwinter. I would like it to be as long as I am, more or less, because I can only nap under it in the fetal position right now. I prefer to stretch out a little more and have warm feet when I am napping.

Back in early May I posted that I had just attended my last department meeting until February 2021, and wondered what the world would look like then. I can't answer that question quite yet (this January department meeting was added to the schedule because of all the stuff we have to work through), but I would not have predicted very many of the events that have transpired across the past eight months. So! Who knows what tomorrow brings in a world where few hearts survive?

(This 80s flashback brought to you by our family game of Name That Tune, which inspired much hilarity and nostalgia this evening. What does that line mean, anyway? Lots of dead hearts wandering around in living bodies? Most people die but some can become -- I don't know -- zombies whose hearts do survive? I thought the song was The Best in 1982 but it has lost much of its charm in the intervening 38 years.)

Also if you need a little stress-busting dance around your living room, this song is popular at our house right now. I have not listened closely to the lyrics but I feel that "más queso" is a sentiment most of us can get behind while dancing stress-bustingly: 

#OLQP

I am organizing a rosary novena, invoking the intercession of Our Lady Queen of Peace for our country for nine days. We'll start tomorrow and end on inauguration day. If the rosary isn't your thing, feel free to join us in whatever way works better for you.

Nos morituri

All right, so that's a melodramatic title. But you guys, I was a vibrating stressball last week before the events at the Capitol, and they did not improve either my focus or my peace of mind.

There's a reason they tell you that you have to return to work for a year after your sabbatical or else pay back your sabbatical salary, as I discovered in a visceral way on Monday. I suspect that this year is especially weird -- people at work are frayed around the edges after a tough fall semester, and it shows. I am walking back into a weird and volatile mix of stuff that would be unwise to blog about, so I will be vague and make optimistic noises. Challenges! Challenges help us grow strong! So many challenges to embrace!

If you are an academic still recovering from a tough fall semester, you might want to skip this paragraph, because I am going to talk about some of the ways that sabbatical was harder than expected. I knew that the work would be hard, because science is hard. I knew that I would be working alone all semester, and that I would need to find ways to feel less isolated; COVID complicated those efforts. But it was also hard in ways I did not expect. About 80% of the time I felt like I was not doing enough work, even though this feeling was not borne out by the actual outcomes of my sabbatical. I was worried that the lack of external deadlines might cause me to be too soft on myself, but -- surprise! -- it had the opposite effect. There was a ton of kid stuff to deal with at the same time. Handling the online school hassles was one of the top-ten most unpleasant things I have dealt with in 24 years of parenting. The parenting issues also stirred up some marriage issues, regarding which I will only observe that emotional labor is hard work, but I can assure you it was No Fun At All. All of it together has been wearying.

I think my colleagues are expecting me to be refreshed and rarin' to go after a semester in which I was free to focus on my research, but I am finding myself in a pretty different spot. It would be impolitic for me to be frank with them, because they really did have a tough fall. But oh, my friends in the computer, may I tell you that I also found the fall difficult, and that the winter so far is not an improvement?

Today I've been remembering that the day before my first triathlon I was overwhelmed with worry about the race. The biggest surprise of the next day was how much fun I had -- there was joy where I had only thought about catastrophe. I think I have just been put together as a person who feels cautious about new things, and I have to do a bunch of new things this semester. I am reminding myself that focusing on catastrophe makes it harder to perceive joy. I am taking deep breaths and trying to hope for the best.

Wish me luck.

We own a piece of this

I am thinking about 25 years' worth of messaging to "good Catholics." We were supposed to vote for the Republicans in 1994, because abortion, and never mind about Newt Gingrich's then-shocking decision that it was better to shut down the government than to negotiate with the liberals.

We were supposed to vote for GWB in 2000, because abortion, and never mind that he broke his campaign promise to hold the line on embryonic stem cell research less than seven months into his first term. Never mind the war, because abortion.

We were supposed to vote for Republicans in 2008 and 2012, because abortion, and never you mind about candidates who refused to take a principled stand against torture. The liberals were supporting a worse mortal sin, the logic ran (if torture was even a mortal sin -- they weren't convinced about that), and at least torture didn't kill anybody. Remember when they told us Obama was going to shut down all the Catholic hospitals because he was so committed to advancing the abortion activists' agenda? 

I found myself more and more puzzled and unhappy across these years, as the rhetoric became more and more divisive. These are the Five Non-Negotiables, screamed the pamphlets, with lots of bold-face type and little sourcing.

There are a couple of men I know who would describe themselves as pillars of their churches, but I have had to mute them on Facebook because of the ugliness in their political posts. If Nancy Pelosi is a beloved child of God, redeemed by the death of the Lord, then there are limits on what we as Christians should say about her. But it turns out that if you spend decades telling people that WE are right and THEY are dedicated to promoting evil, it gets a lot harder to see Nancy Pelosi as a beloved child of God, redeemed by the death of the Lord. If you tell people that all good Catholics vote Republican, it pushes people to overlook Republican policies that are problematic for Catholics. 

I thought surely Donald Trump was a bridge too far in 2016, but I was wrong. I thought surely SURELY his 2020 campaign would flounder and fail, but I think he would have won if not for COVID, and the Catholics saying "most pro-life president ever!!!!" would have propelled him toward that victory. 

I am permanently done with any flavor of pro-life activism that looks favorably on the Trump administration. Catholic Vote mailers? Straight into the recycling bin, unopened, forevermore. I called and harangued the Priests for Life office again and again, until they finally took me off their mailing list. I can't even deal with the sight of their envelopes. Because when you tell people to overlook evil in the name of stopping evil, you blunt their moral sense. And when you steer people toward media sources that play fast and loose with the truth (because those sources tend to condemn the evil you oppose most emphatically) you wind up with a nation in which astonishing numbers of people believe that the Most Pro-life President Ever (no) won the election (no) but was thwarted by widespread voter fraud (no) and that there is somehow justice (no) in their refusal to accept the outcome of a free and fair election and in obstructing the peaceful transfer of power in a democracy (so much no ALL THE NO). You wind up with armed insurrectionists smashing windows in the US Capitol, shouting that it's time to hang the vice-president who has been attempting to do his constitutional duty even as the mob erected a gallows on the lawn. 

The church is full of people saying "you can't be a Catholic and a Democrat!" as if it were a self-evident truth. This position has led an appalling number of Catholics to reject biblical truth (family separation at the southern border, anyone?), the Catechism (capital punishment is morally inadmissible, Roma locuta est), and science (climate change deniers, repent and submit to the Pope). If a person rejects the Bible, the Catechism, and science, what's left? 

We have profoundly damaged our Christian witness in the name of rewriting abortion law. And as the nation picks up the pieces (and, please God, removes from office the man who fomented the Wednesday insurrection), we in the church need to have some hard conversations about where we've found ourselves, and where we go from here.

Resolutions 2021, getting the ball rolling

0. In every peer review I complete, I will make a point of writing kindly even if the paper is sub-par. I just got a decision on the paper I resubmitted at the end of November and HOO BOY that was apparently not a thing Reviewer 1 resolved for 2020. My particular worry was that we would revise the heck out of that paper and it would get rejected, which did not happen. Reviewer 2 thinks we're good to go. But Reviewer 1 has a lot to say and the editor is silent, which is not an ideal combination. 

Mostly today I am thinking about health-related resolutions and not about work-related resolutions. They are pretty much the same health-related resolutions I always make but THIS YEAR I MEAN THEM DERNIT:

1. GO TO BED by 9:30 (starting tomorrow; tonight it's looking like 9:40 might be a better bet).
2. Eat more vegetables and don't eat sweets, because it is better for both happiness and productivity.
3. Exercise gently at the student fitness center 3 days per week. I bought a membership for the spring semester today, because they are being more careful about COVID than most of the alternatives. Running in cold or even cool weather has started to irritate my lungs, so a safe indoor option seems like a good plan for the winter. But I don't think I can work out vigorously while wearing a mask. Ergo: exercise gently is the plan.

Placeholder

Okay, I'm back.

I was feeling pretty sad around Christmas. Here is a weird thing that happened: I kept seeing the email from the sing-along Messiah coordinator saying "we can't sing this year but here is a link to the pictures from last year," and it kept making me cry. And I kept feeling silly for crying, because my family is all alive and my husband and I are employed, and in this year when so many people have lost so much I am going to cry about the sing-along Messiah??

The answer was yes, apparently. I started a post about it, about how keenly I was missing the physicality of making music with other people: jostling together onto the risers, feeling the orchestra warming up in the bones of my skull, directing my whole brain toward the task of singing difficult music with a crowd of other people, almost all strangers, who also know and love this glorious oratorio from almost 300 years ago. When the soprano part directs me to sing an A, my cricothyroid muscle stretches my vocal folds to juuuust about their maximum length so they can vibrate 880 times per second. I haven't found anything else that scratches the same itch.

Christmas is a reasonable time to acknowledge that it's important for us to be together in the flesh, I know, what with the whole Incarnation business. And it's never very helpful to play misery poker. But I felt like I needed to get less sad before I could say here that I had been sad. That doesn't make much sense, I guess, but brains are weird. And maybe I was not going to be at my most rational in the run-up to Christmas, when the darkest time of the year fell at the beginning of month 10 of the pandemic.

We had ice on Friday and snow overnight, and all of our lovely old Gladlyville trees are weighed down. There are fallen branches all over the place, with power disruptions and streets partially blocked and even a house fire nearby as a result of a downed power line (no injuries). This morning at 6:30 I was pouring myself a cup of coffee when there was a series of loud bangs and green flashes of light. I went outside in my bathrobe to see what the heck was going on, and my neighbor Becky (pleasant neighbor Becky, as distinct from crabby neighbor Becky) was also outside in her bathrobe. "Transformer explosion," she said calmly. "I'll call the town." Our other neighbor Linda came around to our side of the block to investigate (not in her bathrobe), and a fourth neighbor poked his head out to say he didn't have power. Yet another neighbor struck up a conversation when I went out to scrape off the car for the trip to church. It's been a long time since I had in-person exchanges with five people outside my family in the space of 30 minutes. I miss in-person exchanges.

So here I am, feeling a little glum and a little worried and a lot lonely. But I usually feel better when I am blogging than when I am not, so I am going to throw up a blog post and see if it seems to help.

Last year I felt so battered by the stuff our family was going through that I did not make any Epiphany resolutions, even though I am usually the resolutions queen or maybe even the resolutions empress. This year, though, I can feel the resolution impulse bubbling up again. I'll be back tomorrow to tell you more.

Stick a fork in me

Okay, I am calling it good on the research front for 2020.

Of the three papers I submitted early in the semester and revised in November, one was accepted on Wednesday (tra-la-LAA!), one is still with the reviewers, and the other one is going into timeout until next year, when perhaps I will feel less grumpy about the editor's response. I have until January 22 to submit the revisions, which should only take a single-digit number of hours if I can prevent myself from pausing every 15 minutes to bellow "I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS NONSENSE," so I won't worry about them for now.

I also submitted two additional papers this month, so I'm finishing out the semester with five papers at various points along the publishing pipeline. I was talking to a colleague on Wednesday about our 2021 plans to write a grant together. She graduated from our PhD program two years before me, and has spent her career working at more research-oriented institutions with a correspondingly lighter teaching load. She said, "I have never had five papers in the pipeline at once."

I have spent the fall worrying that I should be doing more-more-more, worrying about the time that the kids' transition to (and then from and then to) online school has required of me, worrying about whether I have been accomplishing enough to set myself up for promotion to full professor when I am eligible to apply. When I checked in with my new chair in October and told her what I'd finished so far, she said, "That is an incredible amount of work." Weirdly, this caused me to feel that I needed to do a comparable amount of work in the second half of the semester so she would not think I was a slacker. Even more weirdly, two of the papers I have under review at this time consider the impact of self-compassion on women's mental health. Dr. Gladly, heal thyself.

I am not very far into teaching prep for the spring semester, so I will need to put in some recording time and some editing time before the end of the year. But I am going to take a wee break from thinking about academic writing. It's been a gift to have this semester without teaching and service responsibilities, and it has highlighted for me how much I love to have time blocked off for research. It's hard to explain the geeky thrill I get from exploring a new corner of the literature and then figuring out how my work fits into it-- it's the best way to start the workday.

And at the same time-- I might not submit any new papers for a little while here.

Academic publishing is kind of terrible

Okay, friends, I need to grumble for a few minutes.

Early in the semester I submitted a paper. Two and a half weeks later I heard back from the editor: she thought I should either remove the quantitative data or beef it up. Okay! No problem! I removed the quantitative data and resubmitted.

Six weeks later I heard back from the editor: revise and resubmit. Okay! No problem! I revised and resubmitted.

This was a weird R&R, I thought to myself. The only substantive piece of input across the two peer reviewers was that I needed to expand the section on theory. Everything else was comments on my writing style from someone who did not seem to be a native English speaker. The editor offered me no comments at all in the introductory email.

I was feeling optimistic-- I had expanded the theory section and I had attended to all of the complaints about my writing, even though they seemed to me like pretty trivial complaints. Editorial Manager told me that the reviewers submitted their input on 11/25. I kept refreshing my email, looking for that magical decision email that would surely say ACCEPT or at most MINOR REVISIONS.

But no! Instead, after 17 days of sitting on the completed reviews, the editor emailed me to say that the peer reviewers are happy but she has eight -- count 'em, eight -- paragraphs of things she wants me to revise. On my first reading they seemed like reasonable comments, but the timing is all wrong: you don't introduce a bunch of new feedback in the second round of revisions. That's just not the way it is supposed to work. She should have sent me these comments along with the peer reviewers' feedback, back in the beginning of November.

Today I sat down to start the revising, and now I am even more unhappy. One of her paragraphs is asking me to restore a chunk of the material she asked me to cut in September. Another is full of complaints about minor APA style errors, like the single sentence in which I moved a reference out of parentheses and into the text of the article, but forgot to put the word "and" in lieu of an ampersand. But the paragraph that is making me question my life choices is the one where she told me to expand my lit review and emphasize more recent references. When I first read that comment I thought, "Okay! No problem!" This isn't my primary research area and I wasn't surprised that she wanted me to look a little further in the literature. But YOU GUYS, she told me to add four specific references -- of which two are ALREADY CITED IN THE PAPER and two are MORE THAN TEN YEARS OLD and not especially noteworthy.

I am trying to be reasonable and temperate here. I know that online teaching has been especially hard on older instructors. She is probably tired. Maybe she had COVID this fall, or was caring for a loved one with COVID, and is digging out from under a pile of backlogged responsibilities. But I am still exasperated.

Also: pansies and jam

I meant to include two other items in my post last night: pansies and jam.

For years Pete and I found pansies frustrating. They seemed so delicate -- they died no matter where we put them. Finally we learned from the lady at the garden shop that everybody's pansies die when it gets hot. It's just part of living in Gladlyville: pansies can't hack the August heat here, even if you put them in the shade. It wasn't a gardening failure; it was a choosing-to-live-in-this-dumb-Midwestern-climate reality. This year we went back to the garden shop after the weather cooled off again, maybe in early October, and bought a bunch more pansies. Like, a BUNCH. We put some of them in our new shade bed in the backyard, and some of them in pots flanking the front steps, and a few more in the north beds. It felt mildly extravagant to spend $25 on annuals that seemed unlikely to live very long, but they were irresistibly pretty. 

It turns out that pansies are not actually delicate. They are still blooming! In December! After multiple hard frosts! We keep saying, "Oh, that's probably it for the pansies," and then the sun comes out and they rally once more. We bought them in every color: velvety purple and cheerful yellow and deep wine-red and even black. They make me improbably happy.

For years and years we had a Lego Advent calendar. There used to be elaborate rules about which kid could open which window, and complicated barter negotiations about the contents of those windows. And then (sniffle) all my children got too big for Lego Advent calendars. This year, for the first time since the LAST CENTURY, we have a different Advent calendar. It has tiny pots of jam, one for each day. I do not know why Amazon is now charging more than twice what I paid for this Advent calendar back in October. I would not suggest buying it at the current price. But I would be happy to buy it again at the lower price. We have all enjoyed our tiny pots of jam, and the quantities are just right -- enough for everybody to sample (a reminder: we only have four people living here right now), not so much that we're buried in tiny pots of weird jam. Out of the first 13 days, 12 jams were tasty and appealing and one was weird enough to be funny. That's a pretty good ratio, I'd say.