Every time I look at my blog (which is almost daily), I feel guilty that I don't post more often. The reality is, my recreational words are simply fewer than they were years ago when I started this (maybe, too, my life is less interesting now than when I was 22). It might not be that I contemplate or am creating less frequently (my brain certainly feels as if it is still being used quite a bit), it seems as though the trajectory of my thought- and creation-world has shifted instead.
Where am I creating? In the Library, I work with words all day long. I am putting words together in memos, outlines, handouts, marketing materials, and on the web site. I'm teaching in various capacities at some point every day whether in a classroom or one-on-one with students and employees. I'm creating new ways to say old things, exciting ways to illuminate seemingly tedious tasks, and trying to find relevant connections with a generation of students that are increasingly confusing to me.
A few days ago, a student asked me what I
do at night when I go home from work. I pondered it, not even knowing how to answer. I'm ex
hausted every night by the time I get home, anywhere between 6 and 11pm, depending on my work schedule. My brain hurts, and my eyes are so tired sometimes I can't focus on our home computer screen or the words on a page of my thesis. My kitten is so lonely that each night when I return home he acts as if he hasn't seen me in
weeks; he rubs on my ankles and cries while looking into my eyes until I pick him up and carry him around with me while I shut the blinds or look at the mail or talk to Kyle on the phone. Often, I need to do some sort of food prep, though we do our best to make all of our dinners for the week on Sundays. I unload the dishwasher and load it; sometimes there is laundry to switch, fold, or put away. I almost always lay on the couch with my loving kitten for at least 30 minutes, trying to work up the
umph to dive into my thesis revisions, often slipping into a kind of coma of sleep. Mostly, I rest my brain, it seems.
After realizing that I pretty much do
nothing when I get home from work, I began to wonder
why? I used to play the piano (surely I didn't take lessons for 11 years for
nothing), scrapbook, talk to friends who live faraway on the phone, or come up with funny stories to blog about. I used to go running or lift weights every day after work (and I
loved it). I used to feel like there were
so many hours between work and sleep, that I reveled in all that I could accomplish during that time.
Obviously, my feelings have changed as evidenced by my actions.
I don't have any good answers to the question of
why.
I'm not
that old, so I feel like that isn't a legitimate reason; I've never had much energy, so it's not like that fountain is ceasing to flow.
Part of me believes that my well of creativity is being tapped in such a way at work (and, most definitely, through school and this darn culminating project) that it's depleting me of all resources through which I could actually
have a life. That makes me sad. While I do find my work greatly fulfilling, I am not one to be defined by my career. Yes, I fit many of the stereotypes for a librarian, but I'm a whole heck of a lot
more than that, too; or at least I thought I was. I used to be.
I hadn't intended for this to be a Debbie Downer post, and I don't believe it has to be. It's remarkable to me to reflect on all that the last 8 years have brought my way; to consider where I sit today as compared to where I sat as a student intern 8 years ago. Everything is different, including me. I'm hoping to use my summer away from work this year to contemplate what that means--who am I? What do I want to
be? And what steps can I begin to take that will inch me toward that goal?
