In the grand scheme of things

In the grand scheme of things, school may not matter. I doubt that on my deathbed i'll bewail the fact that i never had a 4.0 after high school.

On the other hand, who knows? That slip in gpa my senior year of college was one reason i didn't get into a PhD program in international diplomatic history. I'm glad, in hindsight, that i didn't get into that program, but the gpa did play a role. What if it plays a role later in something else more important?

And what about presentations? Earlier this week i was stressing out over two upcoming presentations. One was individual, and one was a team. Team work stresses me out more because my performance affects others directly, and i don't want to affect their gpas negatively. The individual presentation might have been observed by prominent academicians. I'm not sure why that was stressing me out, except that i wanted to do well, and wanted to impress in a good way--in a way that meant someone would be happy to write a reference letter, say. And all that stress led to a whopping migraine, which didn't help any of the work get done, which didn't help alleviate any stress!

A few helpful people started saying that, y'know, relax, these aren't that important, they aren't a matter of life and death. Trick is, i knew that. I know that. I also know that i am capable of presenting well, but i had a lot of work to do to prepare and trying to plan that preparation time in, knowing how horrible my concentration can be, is what stressed me out. The thought of being unprepared, not stage-fright. Furthermore, i agree: as a matter of life and death, these do not matter.

But i may have many years before i die, and i have a feeling they play a significant role for the interim.

Writing papers

I should be writing two papers. I should have started writing the papers nigh eons ago. I'm grateful for grace--from God, and from fellow humans--because i could have failed this class, and still might, if these are not fantastic papers. I aced the presentations, but these may very well kill me.

I write at my kitchen table. It's hardly ever used as a kitchen table, because i have a little wooden cart thing on which meal prep occurs, and if i eat at the table, it's usually while reading if i'm not in the sitting room or out with others. It's a nice, large-ish maple table that used to be in my parents' home, each one of them except where we lived in Cameroon. I remember learning why we don't tip in our chairs at that table in Northhampton. I remember doing spelling words on that table in Bethlehem, and eating chloriquin-laced apple sauce at it. It seemed much larger than it does now. I remember cutting pieces for many quilt tops at their current home. The chairs are also maple; small, spindly things with curved backs. After sitting in one for nearly 12 hours now, they're hardly as comfortable as i thought they were as a child, and for my next study break, i'm walking to Cost-Plus to get a cushion!

Having to write these papers reminds me how much i hate academic writing. I've hated it since 10th or 11th grade English. Hated analyzing poems. Hated analyzing short stories. Hated writing anything more than a one page off-the-cuff response paper in college. I could verbally explain them to my classmates, but when it came to writing what i'd said, i'd stare at the blank page of notebook paper and hesitate to make my mark, as if the medium was precious, like medieval vellum. Now i stare at the blank white page on a computer screen. I make the title page. I format the references page. I plop my charts, graphs, and tables onto blank pages and insert the appendixes. And then i stare. I never know where to start or how to get my mind organized into an outline for the significant content.

I like writing some things--hey, i have a blog! I write letters to friends, both electronically and on paper. Sometimes i journal (on recycled paper). I used to write poems. But i buy cards that are not precious, because otherwise, that vast expanse stops me short again; and my poetry always began on scraps of paper: clean napkins, receipts, the back of an envelope.

So here i sit. I have 15 pages written, but half the information required isn't in yet, and the whole thing needs severe organizational editing. I edit others' work much easier (and better) than my own. And waiting for the inexorable stress to push me into action out of this writer's block will not lead to the fantastic writing that these must be for me to pass this class. So.