Time Machine

I spent the afternoon and early evening of Valentine's Day organizing and clearing out some files, an ongoing project of mine this winter. It doesn't sound like a very romantic Valentine's activity, but it actually grew into a richer experience than I was expecting. The storage box I was organizing turned out to be something of a time capsule for late 2008 through early 2010, a period in which I finished graduate coursework at Pacifica and transitioned back into non-student life at home.

My goal on Saturday was to locate all the articles and handouts from my classes, stuffed with little ceremony into random folders, and arrange them as methodically as I had papers from the first two years at school. Things had been so busy during the last year of coursework and the dissertation phase that I'd never taken the time to create folders for my third-year classes; putting everything into one box was as far as I'd gotten. I knew there were other things in the box--receipts, letters, business correspondence, etc.--but I figured it was all boring stuff except for the class material. Concentrating on the third-year papers would make a good start, I decided.

Making stacks for each class and category of material took a long time, considering the haphazard order in which I'd placed things. I had a couple of general piles for non-school items, a heap of Pacifica items not pertaining to classes, and stacks devoted to Egyptian Mythology, Religious Studies Approaches to Myth, Hebrew Traditions, and Islamic/Christian Traditions (I put these together because there were fewer handouts). There was a stack of dissertation formulation materials, somewhat organized already. The only class for which I already had a folder was Dante: I had consulted that material for my dissertation and made a folder for it when I cleared my desk off.

As a year of academic life began to arrange itself under my eyes, emotions began to arise. Almost everything I handled had a memory or feeling attached to it. As I organized the articles for my Religious Studies class, I saw myself tucked into a quiet corner at Panera Bread, happily reading Durkheim, Malinowski, and Otto Rank. I remembered sitting in a sunny garden at school, jet-lagged, analyzing an article for Reductionist, Romantic, or Postmodern thinking. I remembered painstakingly searching for images to illustrate a presentation. I thought of a conversation with another student during a class break about the Hebrew and Egyptian traditions. I recalled speaking to the class about Wendy Doniger in a small room on a dark December afternoon fading into dusk. I found directions to someone's house for a party.

There were also welcoming notes from the school for the beginning of each academic year, quarterly syllabi, instructions for those attending graduation in spring 2009 (including two parking passes), a printed email from one of my dissertation committee members, scattered pages from a handout on an Egyptian goddess that, without a staple, had somehow become separated into three or four parts (I only found the first two pages when I had put almost everything away), and, on the back of a printed class schedule, relic of a more hopeful time, an excerpt from Alice Walker's celebrated open letter to newly elected President Barack Obama. 

I also found tax forms, the receipt from a hotel where I spent my first post-Pacifica vacation, brochures for various places visited in Southern California, a calendar of events for a Pasadena bookstore (five years out of date), an empty rental car folder, directions someone had drawn to show me how to find a particular labyrinth in Ventura, Internet material on New Harmony, Indiana, a flyer on a labyrinth church in Saint Louis, notes from Jung lectures in Cincinnati, and a picture I'd been looking for for a long time, lodged mysteriously and out of time sequence in a hodge-podge of papers, news clippings, and maps.

To sum up this experience, it was like looking into a mirror that showed me how I was six years ago: busy, absorbed, hopeful, engaged, and alive, despite many lumps and bumps on the road. I didn't have much time for things like filing, obviously, but I was active, seeking, stretching, very much alive in mind and spirit. All those trips to California and other places, the people I met, and the things I was doing kept me full of ideas and purpose. 

Reliving those days was somewhat of a bittersweet experience, but it was also instructive in reminding me of who I am, where I'm going, and how full of possibilities life always is. I've sometimes looked back on my school days from a distance with very different eyes, reassessing my opinions about certain experiences and events. Quite fair enough. But organizing my papers reminded me of how much I gained from it all and what a source of richness it was, with the added bonus that I now know where everything is. I threw away fewer items than I thought I would, even keeping a few things I really don't need any more. In the end, it seemed like a time to remember. 

When the Fat Lady Sings

This is not at all the way I imagined I'd feel after defending my dissertation. In this strange new world, I'm feeling a lot of things I never imagined feeling. I just pictured a little more joy and a lot less weariness.

I remember the first time I understood the meaning of the expression "bone tired." I was traveling with friends, and we had spent a day walking around Amsterdam after three days in London (and a channel crossing) with little or no sleep. Jet-lagged, irritable, and looking a bit worse for the wear, we climbed endless flights of stairs in our very vertical hotel (Dante's Purgatorio had nothing on that place). We had to get up early the next morning to catch a train to Berlin, so prospects for R & R were not looking good. I remember falling into the huge bed, thinking, "So, this is bone tired."

If I had known I could ever feel more tired, I think I would have just stayed in that bed, which would have been a shame because I would have missed Salzburg, Italy, the Venus de Milo, and several pounds of really good European chocolate.

Who knew a dissertation could take so much out of you?

I started my degree program with excitement, anxiety, and uncertainty, but especially I remember the excitement. I knew I was doing something big and kind of daring, and I recognized the same feeling in most of the faces around me those first days at school. We heard the poem by Rumi, "Unfold Your Own Myth," which pretty much told the whole story, better than we could have imagined. We had all jumped into the rabbit hole, and there was no telling what we'd see or where we'd go on the way to our degrees. There was a part of me that, out of caution, held back a little, whispering, "Just take it a quarter at a time. This is putting you into debt, so be sure it's what you want." But two sessions into the first quarter, and I knew I'd be staying.

Our campus is a beautiful place, with gorgeous gardens and trees, glorious views of the mountains, and even a glimpse of the ocean if you know where to look. I always thought of it as kind of a Garden of Eden, a magical place I had finally managed to find after many hard years of searching. Yet, as I was telling a friend last night, as mythologists we are also aware that the snake was a part of the story. Now, there are many ways to look at the snake from a Jungian point of view, and in some interpretations this creature is a necessary means to achieving greater consciousness, a consciousness that could never be attained in a state of blissful unawareness. It's always been hard for me to accept the idea of treachery in the midst of so much beauty, but after all, ignorance is not bliss. If you were asleep, no matter how beautiful the dream, wouldn't you rather be awake? I would.

So there were many bumps along the way, and some disappointments. Still, it was the work itself that was so sustaining, and that never changed. All of the sacrifices made to go the distance were absolutely worth it, and I would do it all again (perhaps a bit less sweetly and with a lot more attitude). Those hours in the classroom and the talks with friends over meals, around campus, and during walks on the beach were golden. Even now, all of those memories are lit with a beautiful light in my mind, a light that will never grow dim.

I enjoyed the classes so much that I didn't think a lot about the dissertation until our final year. Although my topic had already chosen me, I think, I was not aware of that, and the process of closing in on it was painful. Although I had confidence in my ability as a writer, I had never written a long academic piece, and the idea was increasingly daunting as it became more real. Even though the dissertation formulation process was painful, I'm glad now that it happened the way it did because I was forced to really think through what I wanted to say. For a writer who writes intuitively and not from a plan, this was a challenge, but by the time I had finished my concept paper, I knew I had something solid to work with. Whether I could make it fly the way I wanted it to was a different matter.

Writing the dissertation was a lonely process. I knew it would be, but I didn't know just how lonely lonely could be. There were times when I felt like the last person standing on earth, wondering where everyone else had gotten to. My long-standing interest in mazes and labyrinths took on a much more sober air when I actually entered the labyrinth of writing about them. It's suddenly not a lark once you're in one for real, wondering, "How do I find my way out?" "When will I find my way out?" "WILL I find my way out?" And after a certain point, "When I DO find my way out, what will be waiting for me on the outside?"

So now, having struggled through and emerged, not always in perfect form, but determined, like Childe Roland, to the last paragraph -- here I am. I've done it the best way I know how, I've learned a lot about myself, and I'm hoping for a bestseller when I turn this sucker into a book. Maybe one of these days, I'll recover some of the carefree feeling I used to have and shake off the tiredness. I always wanted to be a full-time writer on my own terms, so maybe my dream will be realized now that I've finished my degree.

So, would I recommend that YOU get a Ph.D.? Well . . . that's a question only you can answer.

Bookstore Logic

Just today I noticed a bookmark that I've apparently been carrying around for more than two years. I remember the day I visited the bookstore in Louisville and the book I bought, a guide to Los Angeles. I've used the book many times but don't recall seeing the bookmark, which includes a quote from Orhan Pamuk, the Turkish novelist: "To carry a book in your pocket or in your bag, particularly in times of sadness, is to be in possession of another world, a world that can bring you happiness."

I've always been a reader. When I was a little girl, I didn't read books so much as immerse myself in them. It was an effortless, unselfconscious way to enter other worlds that immediately became my own, as if I were just another character, looking over the shoulders of the other characters or sitting quietly in a corner. The books I read up until the age of 12 or 13 live for me in a way that few books have since then. At some point I became a more critical reader, which sounds like a good thing but in reality meant that stories lost some of their immediacy for me. It became harder to get lost in them as I became more aware of things like style, literary value, etc. The Nancy Drew books I loved at age 8 then became "formulaic," and I was no longer enchanted by the "silliness" of Dr. Seuss.

I had crossed an invisible border, leaving a magic world and stepping into a more pedestrian reality in which books still called to me, but more softly. My imagination still craved the luminous realm of fairy tales, of King Arthur and Robin Hood and the Little Golden Books, but I could no longer get there. I don't know if this happens to other people or not. Once in a while, a book would still sweep me into its world, a book like To Kill a Mockingbird or The Hobbit or some of the novels of Mary Stewart. On the whole, though, as reading became a more intellectual exercise, my capacity to feel its magic became less.

I actually remember telling a friend years ago that I was tired of reading about life and wanted to experience it directly instead of just in books. Be careful, oh, be careful, what you wish for! The god of libraries (Sesat? Thoth?) might have had a hand in what followed, possibly intending a corrective measure to curb my attempts to flee the library (which turns out to be bad form for a librarian). Let's just say I learned my lesson and am perfectly content now to spend the entire winter curled up with a good book, sipping hot chocolate and eating plates of cookies.

One thing that has somehow never waned is the irresistible lure of a bookstore. I remember sadly the days when all we had were chain stores at the mall, which carried bestsellers and paperback classics but not a lot else. Since then I've developed a pretty high bar for what a bookstore should be, and there are actually some stores that meet it. One criterion is that it should be possible to just walk in and feel yourself attracted to titles at every hand, without having to scour the shelves. (I know some people enjoy rummaging around to uncover gems, but I don't want bookfinding to be like work -- it should be like play).

This is a true story: I was in Northern California six years ago, touring the wine country of Sonoma County and environs. I found myself passing through a small town, no more than an eyeblink, which somehow appealed to me, even though I was on my way to somewhere else. I drove for another 45 minutes or so through an idyllic landscape but kept thinking about the little town I had seen. For some reason, I turned around and drove back, stopping to get chai at a little cafe, and then moving down the street to visit the town's little bookstore.

There was a table in the middle of the store loaded with books on a variety of topics, in no particular order. I picked up a book with an interesting title and opened it at random. The first word my eye fell on was the word "maze." Not surprising that I would notice this, since I'd been interested in mazes for a while. I picked up another book, on a different topic than the first one; again I opened it at random, and again, the first word I saw was "maze." A third book; again, at random, again, the word "maze."

I wasn't even thinking about myth studies at that point, but I knew enough about Jung to recognize synchronicity. I had always bemoaned the fact that that type of thing never happened to me, and now, shazam!, here it was. Of course, three is a magic number in fairy tales, and looking back, I see this incident as the opening by which I fell into the rabbit hole of a whole series of adventures, good and bad. At the time, I wasn't sure how to interpret this bookstore experience, but I kept wondering about it, until six months later, I was in graduate school, the last place I thought I'd be. I wrote about mazes and labyrinths several times, but resisted choosing it for my dissertation, not really accepting that the topic had already chosen me.

I now know a word I didn't know before, which is numinous, the quality of divinity or magic that shines through certain events, places, and things, revealing a pulsating significance where something very ordinary appeared only a moment ago. A good bookstore deals in the numinous, as does a good library. That's why it's important to be within reach of one or the other, and preferably both, if you are, say, thinking about relocating. I spent an afternoon and two frustrating evenings in Los Angeles looking for the one (there are several good used bookstores, but you also need one that deals in new books). I approached the last bookstore on my list feeling nervous, since I hadn't yet seen anything at all like what I had in mind. Would I end up having to move to Northern California (or Portland? or Seattle?) just to be near a good bookstore?

Fortunately, this bookshop turned out to be just the right size. Browsing yielded a good number of interesting titles. In one corner was a little boy surrounded by a pile of books, whose mother was threatening to leave without him (when last seen, he was still reading). There were thoughtful staff picks. I chose a book to buy, then changed my mind, picking up the one next to it, and thought to myself, this store could be the difference between my moving here or not moving here.

I didn't get to start the book until last night. I was finishing another book I had become engrossed in, a book about, of all things, a bookstore and a writer. (I had found it at Powell's, the Paradiso of bookstores, in Portland.) I picked up the new book last night, intending to read a little before going to bed. I liked the way it started, with a musing on the power of scent to hold memories; its setting in Provence; the romance combined with a touch of Gothic; the lyricism of the writing. Then, at the bottom of page 11, at the beginning of chapter 3, I came across the words: "Dom and I met in a maze." You're kidding me.

It was Bilbo who said, "the Road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began. Now far ahead, the Road has gone, and I must follow, if I can . . ." 

Ariadne Meets Arachne

So how do you pass the time when your dissertation draft is in someone else's hands and you're free to turn your attention to other things? We've been lucky with the weather this New Year, and there has been a succession of mild, sunny days, perfect for long walks in the afternoon under a cerulean sky. I have also watched a recorded course on Jung and spirituality; done some dusting; thrown away a bunch of accumulated receipts; made gingerbread cookies; watched Lord of the Rings all the way through; completed some paperwork; started and finished Death Comes to Pemberley, and ("Ta-da!") started a knitting project.

The knitting project may or may not be a good idea. I spent an hour reading through a "knitting for dummies" book and getting more and more intimidated. I was looking for the part that explained the difference between "knit" and "purl" and what all those little abbreviations in my "Vintage Pull-Through Scarf" kit mean. The yarn that came with my kit is a lustrous green merino wool with paler shades mixed in, 230 yards of it. When I bought the kit, I thought it would be self explanatory but found out that was not the case. It actually assumes you know what you're doing.

Attracted to the photo of the smartly knotted scarf on the package, I decided that this kit couldn't be too difficult to master, even for an absolute beginner. I mean, I'm getting a doctoral degree, right? How hard can it be? I have to say the whole knitting thing is a bit of unfinished business for me. I had an Irish grandmother who was constantly knitting sweaters (I have two of them) and who tried to encourage me from the age of 8 or so to pick up the craft. I think I received two of those little loom kits before I succeeded in completing a potholder, and I don't remember what became of the knitting kit, except that I never started it.

Part of the problem was that, although I loved dolls, play kitchens, and tea sets, the idea of actually doing something useful like knitting seemed less like play and more like being domesticated. It was more like work, the kind of thing that could result in someone expecting you to do it all the time. I remember I didn't want any part of it. Now that I know no one's expecting me to do it, I'm attracted to it. I like the idea of doing something complex with my hands that results in something tangible. It requires a different kind of intelligence than the one I'm used to.

It's off to a slow start so far. In my opinion, a book on knitting should start by telling you how to make a stitch, but mine started by pointing out all the difficulties inherent in knitting, all the mistakes you're likely to make, the deceptive nature of patterns, and the myriad types of yarn, including their drawbacks. In the midst of a discourse on the finer points of needles, I finally had to admit I was lost when I looked at mine and realized they might as well be chopsticks for all I could tell.

Leafing ahead, I finally found the place where the book gets down to defining terms and tells you how to make a slip stitch, which is apparently the entry point, the equivalent of "Speak Friend and Enter," for knitters. After attempting this very basic technique for several minutes without getting anywhere, I fortified myself with hot tea and gingerbread and sat down for another go. It seems to me that the instructions don't really match the diagram, but that might be my fault. A lifetime spent with your nose in books, studiously avoiding the domestic arts, may make you a little dumb when you try to shift gears.

Come to think of it, this business of knitting could be another way of tangling myself up in knots and intricate paths (once you start thinking about labyrinths they just keep coming at you). There is a story in Greek mythology about Arachne, the girl so skilled in weaving that she became conceited and was turned into a spider by Athena, the goddess of the arts and crafts. I don't anticipate attracting any dangerous notice with my own knitting; I'll be too busy learning the difference between K2tog, SSK, and K1fb, how to tell the Wrong Side from the Right Side, and what gauge means. Come to think of it, watching that Great Learning Course on The Divine Comedy might be a little less taxing.

Faint Sounds of Victory

The draft has left the building.

Last week I got the full draft of my dissertation boxed up and out of here, which was a big milestone. Although I face revisions over the next few months, I can now truthfully say the worst is behind me. When I started the blog two years ago, I said I wanted to have fun with the dissertation, and that I doubted anything good would come of it if I didn't have fun.

So, was it fun?

Well . . . parts of it were sort of fun, but not fun like a day at the beach or at King's Island. It was more like the fun you experience at the end of a run, when you feel good about what you just did but don't really want to go back and do it again.

When I was in the middle of my coursework, I sometimes imagined that writing the dissertation would be a luxury since I would "just" be concentrating on one project instead of juggling a class schedule and a job. The truth of the matter is that being in school was easier in some ways, namely because of the built-in deadlines, the regular trips to our beautiful campus, and the camaraderie of classmates. The end of that sustained contact with my cohort left me in a lonely spot, isolated at home with my books, like a female version of St. Jerome with a Starbucks card and a laptop.

In such a situation, it's easy to doubt yourself and wonder if you'll ever find a way to pull together all the disparate information you've been gathering into some kind of coherent whole, much less write the elegant and persuasive manuscript of your dreams. The more you read, the more you feel you need to read. You imagine someone poking holes in all your arguments and wonder if you'll be able to get through the defense without resort to smelling salts. 

I hear stories from friends about life events derailing their research, and I'm grateful that at least I've got it all down on paper. A year ago, I was exhausted after writing the first two chapters. I just had to let it stew for a while while I traveled and cleared my head, thinking of the best way to get from Madison to St. Louis, or where to eat dinner my first night in Seattle, or whether to stay in a bed and breakfast or a hotel in New Orleans. Then, when I did start writing again, I had to fight my way tooth and nail out of the bog of Chapter 3, an epic struggle that makes me think I now understand how Jacob felt after wrestling the angel.

Was it that intimidatingly masterful book on the labyrinth and the Middle Ages that threw me? The remoteness of the period? My relative lack of expertise in medieval studies? Looking back now, I think it may have been a needling feeling that there was something I needed to unearth, a basic way in which I disagreed with some of the conclusions I was reading, which hadn't come to the surface yet. Eventually, it was an immense relief just to recognize that I disagreed with one of my experts and could stand my ground on it.

The fun parts of the dissertation came fleetingly, when an idea would occur to me in midstream, like the way The Woman in White showed up in Chapter 5 and Bruce Springsteen materialized in Chapter 7. I mean, seriously, who would have ever thought of Bruce Springsteen ending up in someone's dissertation on labyrinths? (He's in there because of Tunnel of Love.) I also had the pleasure of not only writing about A Midsummer Night's Dream but finding research that supported my decision to put it in Chapter 4.

When I finished the proposal, someone asked me if I didn't feel a sense of accomplishment. I said that I couldn't really relax because I knew how much more I needed to do to improve it. I have a similar feeling now, knowing where the shortcomings are and the places that could use a bit more work. It's hard to know when to stop with such a big project, but eventually you run up against that ticking clock, and it forces you, willy-nilly, to let go.

Maybe this is what it feels like to be a parent, watching that little one toddle off to school for the first time, convinced that he's way too young to be out there in the world. As you watch, considering calling him back for one more hug, he disappears into the building without a backward glance, and the door closes behind him. You're left on the sidewalk, waving vacantly at an empty schoolyard, wondering how in the world you got there so soon.

The Mystery of Chapter 3

I dreamed last night about rainbows -- or at least, two ends of one. I was distracted in the dream by some drama I can't remember, and suddenly I looked up to see a faint glimmer of watery color off at the distant horizon. Following it with my eye, I saw the bare suggestion of the entire arc across a vast expanse of sky. The two ends were the most distinct part, and there appeared to be a rainbow within a rainbow. I'm not sure what I felt other than a mild frustration at not being able to see the whole thing more completely.

It may be all the stormy weather we've had recently that suggested this image to my sleeping brain. I remember looking at the sky the other day and thinking conditions seemed right for a rainbow, though all I saw were some scraps of clouds. When I lived in Florida as a little girl, I saw a lot of vivid rainbows; I remember one in particular that I happened to see through the rear window of our family car when we were returning home from the grocery store one evening. It was enormous and very bright, and something about the fact that it was behind us, boldly transforming a rainy sky into something breathtaking behind our backs, has made me remember it all this time.

I remember watching the vision slowly fade and feeling very wistful. That's when my mother told me about the pot of gold you would find if you could only get to the end of the rainbow before it disappeared. That story filled me with the pure and intense yearning you only feel for things that are slightly out of reach. Sometime soon after that I found a picture book featuring a group of children who were chasing the rainbow in pursuit of that very same gold. It had lovely illustrations of the ever elusive rainbow and the plucky children, always arriving a little too late.

Years later, I see a similarity between this emotion and the plight of the unfortunates in Dante's Purgatorio who spend their days contemplating ripe, glistening fruit and sparkling water that have been strategically placed just outside their grasp. (These people were being punished for gluttony, according to Dante. If Purgatory turns out to be real, the tree that blocks my path will most likely dangle Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs and Chocolate Ecstasy ice cream cones.)

Come to think of it, this pursuit of the rainbow is also very similar to the story of the Holy Grail, which appears as a sudden, piercingly sweet vision of loveliness floating above the heads of the court at Camelot. It glides about provocatively before disappearing as suddenly as it came, leaving everyone dazed and creating a delicious unrest among the knights, who are now filled with an overpowering longing to seek it to the ends of the earth.

I'm getting ready to work on the third chapter of my dissertation, which deals in part with the Grail Quest as a labyrinthine journey. Dante will be in there, too. Since finishing my proposal in December, I've left the dissertation strictly alone, waiting for the right opening to find my way back in. In the last week or two, I've noticed my energy for the project returning. For some reason, Chapter 3 has seemed daunting, and the whole idea of the labyrinth in the Middle Ages almost too weighty and complex to think about. That's actually a little strange considering how I love the Grail story and am intrigued by Dante's geography. Certainly writing Chapters 1 and 2 depleted my resources, but in all the months since finishing I haven't felt the slightest urge to jump into Chapter 3 -- none at all until now.

It could be that something is slightly off in the way I approached the first two chapters, and I have gotten off the path a little. It could also be that there is something in this chapter that is too difficult tackle head on. I've been approaching this as an intellectual problem when it is of course more than that (every dissertation is, I think). That could be the reason for dreaming about rainbows on the eve of picking things up again.

Ordinarily I don't like to talk about what I'm working on while I'm doing it, so this kind of self revelation is unusual. If you've ever wondered what it would be like to write a dissertation (an idea that probably occurs to very few people, actually), now you know the truth: scholars are often just as clueless as everyone else.

On the other hand, it could be a lot of fun to unravel The Mystery of Chapter 3. If I were writing a Nancy Drew book, that's what I would call this. Maybe Nancy Drew (another favorite from my childhood) is a good model for the duration of the effort. As I recall, she always got her answers, and didn't stop until she did.

Threshold Guardians

I'm at the point where I have read and absorbed pages and pages of words and have a whole forest of ideas in my head. I have culled arguments from papers I've written, taken notes on Virgil and Pliny, drunk chai lattes and mocha frappuccinos, stared into space, daydreamed, listened to the blues, considered buying a new mascara, and mopped my kitchen floor.

I have passed through the much scarier (and prolonged) period of just standing at the edge of the woods, staring at what appeared to be an impenetrable tangle. You start to push your way in, and you see that what appeared to be solid actually opens up a little, showing a passage where there didn't seem to be one.

It's like that instant in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, when pushing through an ordinary wardrobe full of coats with a seemingly solid back suddenly leads to another world, or in Through the Looking Glass, when Alice climbs through the mirror and finds herself in another country. You could also compare it to that moment in the Harry Potter books when, in order to get to Hogwarts, the kids have to run as hard as they can with a luggage trolley at a seemingly solid wall. Writing is like that.

No matter how long I write, or what kind of writing I do, I usually feel inadequate at the beginning. I've found that (solvitur ambulando) it's best to keep putting one foot in front of the other; progress is progress, including mistakes, and things start to take on a rhythm of their own if you just move. What seems like stumbling turns into something more graceful and patterned as long as you keep going. Think you're going to sound like Abraham Lincoln in the Gettysburg address? Forget it, at this stage. You have let go of your dignity and just scramble.

I recognize my delay tactics -- a sudden need to look at the Soft Surroundings web site, to check prices on silk comforters, and to watch a video of the cat that adopted a baby squirrel -- for what they are. They all express a reluctance to take a run at that hard place in case this time there really isn't a way through and I end up with bruises and scratches on my face. Or, more likely, there is a way, but it requires a lot of hard digging. Other people have explored writing (and reading) as processes of initiation, but this is actually my first time to realize that it applies to me, too.

Crossing the threshold is a liminal moment in any adventure, the signal that you've committed yourself. Fears are like the demons in The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Wrathful guardians, hungry ghosts, and hell beings may be just the projections of your own mind, but they still have flaming mouths and talons like razors. The minute you show them you mean business, though, they will simmer down and let you by -- they might even turn into a bouquet of flowers or an angel bearing that pale green sweater from Soft Surroundings. They are actually on your side, even if they do have ten heads.

The Siren Call of the Octopus

It's Sunday evening, the apartment smells like heaven, and I've been listening to Bonnie Raitt.

At first, I couldn't figure out the chocolate smell. I do have four big bars of premium Lindt chocolate in the kitchen cabinet, but that's nothing unusual; I try to stay stocked in case of emergencies. I think maybe the kitchen got steamy while I was boiling pasta for dinner, and that released the aroma. I didn't realize it until I came back inside after a trip to the recycling bin and was suddenly enveloped by the scent, rich and dark. I would have opened a window, but I'm sure the chocolate air is good for my complexion.

Maybe this little treat is my reward for a day well spent. I got up and went out for a long walk this morning, right after breakfast, no makeup, no shower, no nothing. I wanted to take my walk early because I was serious about getting a lot done today. I worked on my proposal and started organizing my Works Cited from various lists I had pasted together haphazardly; that took a long time, and I didn't stop until 4:30, when I needed to go to the grocery store. I try to work on dissertation tasks every day, but I'm sometimes a little low on energy after a day at my other job, so in the evenings I'm easily distracted by other things.

Take the Internet, for instance. I was in a libraries teleconference with writer Neil Gaiman a few months ago. Mr. Gaiman talked about the siren call of the Internet, and of how it can lure you away from whatever it is you're supposed to be doing, so that you suddenly look up and realize you've spent a few hundred dollars on eBay for items you don't need, without getting a thing done on your own project.

For me, it isn't eBay -- it's YouTube, and those headlines on the MSN home page, links with enticing titles like "20 Spa Indulgences for Under $50," "Fifteen Desserts in a Bowl," "Sixteen Signs He's Into You," "10 Dating Truths You Can't Ignore," and "How to Wear Leopard Prints." At various times this week, I found myself:

• watching Robert Plant singing "Angel Dance" in the back seat of a car cruising a Chicago neighborhood; 
• perusing a slide show of the season's must-have little black dresses; 
• learning how to create more style options with hot rollers (I don't have hot rollers); 
• looking at pictures of the world's most dangerous bugs; 
• watching a video of an octopus making off with a guy's camera (Hey, this one was educational. I learned a lot about octopuses from it.) 

None of these were related to my dissertation, but they all seemed compelling at the time.

It's nice to have access to the Internet while working to look up missing citations and do fact checking, but it can be a mixed blessing. I am pretty self-disciplined, but even I have trouble resisting temptation in the form of "The Best Jeans for Your Figure" and "Fourteen Tree Houses You Can Live In." I'm more easily tempted when I'm stuck in my own writing, so there may be fewer tree houses and fashion tips now that things are rolling.

I may sneak just one more look at that octopus video. Here it is, just in case you're trying to get some work of your own done.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5DyBkYKqnM

Solved by Walking

Today is August 22. I actually moved into my freshman dorm on Sunday, August 22, many years ago. (I remember this the same way I remember that full-time tuition was $242 that first semester.) I realized the significance of the date this afternoon when I was in the grocery store, pushing my cart past a lot of new college students who have just arrived in town. I wonder how many of them will do what I did and deliberately buy a different brand of laundry detergent than their mother used, just to prove how independent they are. Radicals!

There's been a lot of water under the bridge since that day, but at least I'm consistent -- I still use the same brand of detergent.

Fast forward a few decades to one year ago today. It was Saturday, August 22, and I was visiting St. Louis. Having just finished my last year of coursework in my doctoral program (four degrees later, different school), I was getting ready to walk a few labyrinths as an adjunct to all the book research I was facing. I thought of this as a fun way to enter the dissertation and balance the intellectual work on the labyrinth with an in-the-body experience. It seemed like a good idea to make the research experiential. I just didn't know how literal this would become, and that the whole trip would turn into a gigantic labyrinth.

I went into the first labyrinth on my agenda the next morning, a Sunday, when the grass was covered with a heavy dew, so that I literally got my feet wet. It was a turf labyrinth at a church just down the street from my hotel, and I was nursing an unexpected heartache from the night before along with sincere confusion about what I was doing there. So I did as the church's pamphlet suggested and asked myself that question as I was walking in. It was not pleasant; introspection is sometimes painful. However, it was probably at this point that walking labyrinths became something besides a game for me. I walked out a little later feeling like I might actually have touched something real.

Today I'm looking back on the winding road between that long-ago August 22, the first of my college career; August 22 of last year, my initiation into my dissertation; and today, August 22, 2010, when I did some writing for my dissertation, along with some more walking. There may be a glimmer of order in the chaos, if I'm not imagining it. I don't know where the road will go in a few years (or even a few hours). But I found this motto on a fountain near another labyrinth I walked that memorable weekend, one year ago. If I ever get a tattoo, maybe this should be on it. Solvitur ambulando: "It is solved by walking."

Deja Vu All Over Again

I attended a conference this weekend at my school. It was the first time I had stayed at Ladera, our second campus, since my first summer as a myth studies student. I drove up Thursday from L.A., met a friend for dinner in Carpinteria, and walked down to the beach for a stroll under the stars. We arrived at the campus in the dark, just like I did the first time I stayed there. I drove myself this time and was proud of being able to negotiate the winding, hilly lanes that had seemed so bewildering a few years ago.

By some quirk, my classmate had the same room in the residence hall that she had the first time through; I was still next door to her, but on the opposite side, which resulted in a very strange feeling of deja vu. It was one of those instances where time does a loop and carries you back, like a labyrinth that circles you around to the same spot from a different vantage point.

This circumstance invited a meditation on where we are now compared to where we were. I know that I listened to the conference presenters with a practiced ear, better able to evaluate both content and form, on the other side of doing multiple presentations of my own as a student. I talked to a filmmaker whose film I had seen years ago in my home town, never dreaming I would ever meet her, much less be able to talk to her seriously about my own interest in film. I played with graphite pencils, Play Doh, and crayons in the art loft, no longer so afraid of feeling silly and more willing to just see what would happen. I attended an early morning session in which people shared their nighttime dreams in what was called a Social Dreaming Matrix. (Hey, why not? -- this is California.)

I also noticed that the old Jesuit residence hall didn't seem quite as sinister at night, that the mountains are still stunning, whether viewed sharp-edged against the light or enshrouded in Arthurian mists, and that the walk up to the pretty little Vedanta temple is as steep as it ever was.

I thought the highlight of the weekend would be the pre-conference workshop on myth and the movies, until I was astounded by a lecture yesterday morning on Jung, imagination, and social consciousness. The presenter, Mary Watkins, explained the importance of bringing individuation into the wider world. A truly individuated person, she said, is an advocate for human rights and the need to heal divisions between people and countries. I flashed back to the first presentations I heard as a prospective student and remembered how exciting it was to hear someone talk about the ways depth psychology could help make a better world. Maybe that will give me a touchstone to steer by as I find my way through the labyrinth of my own research.

It's never too late to be surprised. I was heading down the hill yesterday, on my way back to L.A., with the satellite radio station cranked up in my rental car and '50s music rocking, when I realized, for the first time in four years, that the name of the road I was on -- Toro Canyon Road -- means "Canyon of the Bull." I have seen the minotaur in many places but overlooked his presence on this road until now. Of course, now I know that not only can you find him everywhere, but that he's more complicated than I used to think he was.

Esperance Me Guide

Writing a dissertation is strenuous, and you have to keep your strength up. Yesterday I had popcorn, a cherry Coke, ice cream, a brat, baked beans, lemonade, and potato chips, all in a six-hour period. A brownie, too -- I forgot about that. Getting your mind off your work is also important. I've somehow managed to watch six movies since last weekend, and all of them were frivolous. I have Kurosawa's Rashomon sitting on my living room table, and I guess I'm going to watch it . . . but really, I'd rather watch Letters to Juliet again.

This is all a counterweight to the reading I've been doing. I hit a rough patch with the scholarly tome on labyrinths I've been carrying around. It's an important book and thoroughly researched, but I realized the other day I was drowning in it. I had started to feel like a schoolgirl in pigtails in the face of the author's authoritative tone and profusion of notes. It finally dawned on me today -- this book has turned into a labyrinth! And the author is my Minotaur!

Before I admitted it was a monster, I just used delay tactics to avoid picking it up. This morning, I did a little reading before and after breakfast. That wasn't so bad. I had finally decided I wasn't obligated to study all the illustrations and read all the notes. But despite this concession, I still found myself in no hurry to pick it up again, even after taking a shower, checking my email, looking up the weather forecast, watching Old Spice commercials on YouTube (I'm serious), and paying bills.

After a bit of slow and labored reading, I found a reference in the book to a Bach composition called "Kleines Harmonisches Labyrinth" (I didn't know there was such a thing as musical labyrinths, but indeed there is). This composition is supposed to make you think of a labyrinth because of its unexpected chords, but I found it on YouTube, and it just sounded like Bach to me. I did discover by sniffing around that not everybody agrees with my author that this piece is Bach's -- a-ha! A chink in the armor! It came as a relief to find that this expert could be wrong about something . . . though I was disappointed that I couldn't hear the labyrinth in the music.

I decided to clear my head, so I went for a walk. Being on my own two feet seemed to get me oriented, and I got home 40 minutes later feeling better. I wrestled the book into the car and headed for Starbucks. In looking at the 50 pages remaining, I realized I could finish it today if I pushed, since a lot of it is illustrations. I sat by the window and concentrated; I'm sure my expression was terrifying. I read steadily, checking notes here and there, and an hour and a half later, I was finished, despite a headache.

I'm grateful to this author for providing much-needed clarity on the history of the labyrinth; I also appreciate the fact that he's clear on the difference between a labyrinth and a maze, a distinction that's important in my thesis but often ignored by others. All the same, it's nice to be on the other side of this particular labyrinth.

While fixing dinner tonight, I remembered to turn over the page on my calendar, something I always like doing because I look forward to seeing the next month's picture and philosophical quote. The theme of the calendar is The Path: Finding Your Way on Life's Journey. The picture for June shows an empty boardwalk, a study in shadow and light extending into the distance over a marsh or inlet; what appears to be the sea is a blue ribbon in the distance. The caption quotes Psalm 77 -- "Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the great waters, and thy footsteps are not known."

Looking for the Beat

One of my biggest adjustments in the last six months has been to having free time again. Three years of full-time work and full-time school left little room for anything extra until I finished my classes in August. After that, I had time again to read frivolous novels, catch up with friends, go to arts events, or even do nothing. I didn't have to feel that every minute spent on something besides classwork was stolen time.

This time last year, I was spending hours just gathering images for presentations in my Egyptian Mythology class, not counting time spent doing research for those same presentations. And that was just one class; I had two others that were nearly as demanding. If I wasn't trying to wrap my head around Sufi mysticism I was reading Paul's letters to the Corinthians on my lunch hour or looking at pictures of Byzantine art. I was thinking recently that last winter didn't seem as gray as this one -- but even if it was, I may not have had time to notice it.

So I enjoyed my free time this fall, but by Thanksgiving, I was starting to miss the sense of purpose and drive that carried me through my coursework. Now that I'm in the dissertation period, I'm happy to be starting my research and settling into the process, which has its own pace. I'm also anxious. It's solitary, for one thing. You have to find your own beat, because no one is there to enforce a schedule or tell you what to do. It actually reminds me of my first semester in college.

I'm still looking for the balance of work and play. Ideally, work is play, when things are going well. Coming off a period of relative leisure, I'm working to find the intensity again, and I'm sensing there may be an ebb and flow. Today, for instance, I was in no hurry to get up, even though I had things to do. I answered emails, read the newspaper online, and watched videos on YouTube before settling down to read up to page 204 in The Name of the Rose. After a couple of hours of reading, I still had to go to the grocery store and take the garbage out. Then the afternoon was sunny, and spring fever set in. I went for a walk, getting back in time to meet friends for dinner.

I got home tonight in time to watch ice dancing and get ready for another work week. I just saw skier Bode Miller climb the podium to receive a gold medal, his first. He looks happy and proud (and maybe a little stunned), just the way I imagine feeling the day I defend my dissertation.

But I have to get it written first, and the journey promises to be eventful. The rest of my life won't stop for the project and will probably find a way into it. That seems to be the nature of the thing.

Are We Ready?

I told someone the other day that my clock was starting on January 1, and he asked if I meant my biological clock. No, no -- different clock, I said. My dissertation clock, to be exact, which is now ticking and will continue to do so for the next two years. I've never written a dissertation, have spent most of my life not expecting to write one, and don't know what to expect from the process.

I think the trouble started about four years ago when I was completing a survey from the Special Libraries Association about career aspirations and came across the question, "Do you have any plans to get a doctorate?" I thought that was one of the easier questions to answer, and I clicked the button that said "No" without a second thought. In my fanciful moments, I wonder if that answer, given so emphatically, might have attracted the attention of one of the Fates, lounging idly somewhere in the vicinity of my computer. What's certain is that within months of that day, a chain of events had led to my enrollment in a graduate program on the other side of the country, in a field totally unrelated to my day job. (Or is it?)

After three years of coursework, I'm heading now into terra incognita. My vision is to write something fresh, creative, and connected to real life. That's my hope.

I discovered something. When it came time to write my first paper for Greek and Roman Mythology, I found I had to overcome some resistance to the whole idea of Outlining an Argument, Surveying the Literature, and Employing MLA Citation Format. Those are the tools of the scholarly trade, of course, and I'm familiar with them. In the past I taught composition and earned a master's degree in English. I'm good at editing and the mechanics of writing. But from some hidden place, right at the start, this little scamp reared his head and insisted, "I want to play!" I realized that the part of writing I really enjoy is making leaps and fitting the words together to make a picture. Hard work is involved, but it starts with play.

I know enough about writing (and psychology) to know that that child is precious and that nothing of significance will happen unless he's happy. I even think I know what he looks like. He's the little blond curly-haired boy who gazed so wistfully over his father's shoulder in one of my dreams. I took care of him this fall by playing with labyrinths, walking as many of them as I could for an in-the-body and out-of-the-head experience. I even got my shoes muddy walking a corn maze.

Pretty soon the writing, rewriting, and negotiating will begin. Today, I primed the pump by going to a movie with a friend and eating the fudge he had secreted in his pocket. A little chocolate can never hurt.