Missed connections?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

While driving to Tuscaloosa tonight, I listened to the latest episode of The Moth podcast, Adam Gopnik’s tale of his daughter’s imaginary friend, Charlie Ravioli. Gopnik is perhaps best known as a New Yorker staff writer, and he and his wife returned from that city after living abroad because they wanted their kids to experience the wide-eyed New York childhood they envisioned.

So Gopnik was a bit concerned when his daughter created an imaginary friend whose New York-lifestyle mirrored that of too many adults (both in that city and otherwise). Olivia would call Charlie Ravioli frequently, only to be intercepted by his answering machine or assistant.

Gopnik began to consider life outside New York, and I’ll spare you the rest because it’s a sweet story better told by someone who lived it. But that tale did leave me thinking about busy-ness and how I’m in the midst of a concerted effort to scale back. I’m taking time away from some things I enjoy in order to pursue my greatest loves, and I’m setting goals such as blogging every day for a month. This project is, in itself, an effort to make time for something I consider meaningful.

And since I’m an information junkie, I constantly come across meaningful information others have communicated, whether via blogs, media or otherwise. Here are a few highlights from what I’ve read or heard this week.

Interesting timing: I read this blog entry about Facebook earlier today, and then tonight happened to listen to “On the Media’s” episode about Facebook, aired just before Facebook’s IPO. This program provides fascinating analysis of media trends week to week, and this episode may have been one of the best I’ve heard. It was also especially interesting to listen to after teaching a class at Alabama; when I was a student there, Facebook was brand new and didn’t roll out to UA students until the week I graduated. Now it’s a regular part of not only my personal, but also my professional life. Those interviewed for this program couldn’t predict a world without this kind of interconnectedness, whether for better or worse.

Today, the UAB medical system announced it won’t hire tobacco users after July 1.

My favorite class in grad school was review writing, and one of the most valuable lessons that Don Noble taught me was that it’s easier to sound clever when writing a negative review. I try not to take the easy way out, and when I teach I tell my students the same. But given that the New York Times was comfortable publishing this scathing review, I’m betting that the restaurant it describes was pretty awful. (By the end, I was laughing so hard I had to explain to my office mates what was going on.) (Oh, and I also re-established my Sunday NYT subscription today! So much more information to come.)

Now, I realized years ago that working in media meant that, in some ways, I’d always be on. But there’s a good novel waiting for me, and plenty of news to consume tomorrow. I think it’s time to curl up and read something that isn’t on a screen.

Standing on a darkened stage, stumbling through the lines

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I was diagnosed with depression earlier this year. Although it took a series of tough events before I decided to seek help, I’ve been self diagnosing since I was 14. When I told my therapist that I should have done something about this at least 10 years ago, she very kindly responded, “You’re here now. We’ll deal with it now.”

I’ve come a long way in the seven months since I received that diagnosis, with the help of therapy, medication, friendship and a growing belief that it’s OK that I’m not perfect. But it’s still hard for me to think about the worst days of this year, when I would email a coworker from my spot on the office bathroom floor and tell her I was crying and needed her to come get me. I knew I was broken.

I wasn’t so good at asking for help the first time I realized depression might be an issue. Although this year was set off by some challenging familial, relational and career circumstances, it hasn’t always been so. (Remember, depression is a clinical condition, not just sadness.) During my freshman year of high school, I was down after my cheerleading squad lost a competition, and it took a long time for my mood to lift. My closest friends didn’t understand, which left me feeling bereft. I would wake up far too early, and then spend the hours until school lying in bed, watching infomercials.

Looking back, I can see that both the transition to high school and seasonal affective disorder were at play. Children don’t have such perspective. And, OK, neither do I when I’m in the throes of my worst moments.

But this year, I’ve started to learn how to cope. I’ve learned to ask for help, and I’ve learned to identify when I’m viewing life through depression rather than reality. Sometimes an issue will seem so big that it’s overwhelming; I have people in my life who will remind me that challenges are surmountable, and that they’re walking through them with me. I’ve always been determined and a perfectionist. Now, I’m balancing those (generally very good) traits with a healthy dose of reality.

When I told an insightful friend about my diagnosis and how life has improved since, he offered one of the most encouraging, profound compliments I’ve ever received. “My expectations for you just increased,” he said. “If you’ve achieved so much while depressed, what else are you capable of?”

I know this: I’m capable of sharing my story with others. Depression is common and often easily treatable, but some people still hold a stigma associated with it and other mental-health issues. Therapy and medication have done wonders for me; my therapist said I just needed a little support. As a coworker said, “You wouldn’t expect a diabetic to go off insulin. That makes up for what his body doesn’t produce. So if you need antidepressants to do the same, what’s wrong with that?” I can’t predict whether I’ll need this medication and a psychologist forever, but I can encourage others to seek the help they need.

Day three’s #bloglikecrazy prompt was to write something risky. I think it’s riskier not to share these challenges. Today’s subject line comes from one of my favorite songs, Nickel Creek’s “Reasons Why.”

I may be leavin’ myself open to a murder or a heart attack

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley
Mac, the world’s best cat. Ever.

I’m not particularly good at Halloween. For most of my life, my costumes have alternated between some variation on a cat and a cheerleader. (The year I went as She-ra was a big leap for me.) This year, I again embraced my lazy costuming and went as, well, myself. A pair of cat ears and my regular attire made me a cat lady. (I let my coworkers determine whether or not I was a crazy cat lady. The vote was a unanimous yes.)

In my “old age,” I’ve gradually accepted and even embraced the fact that I’m a crazy cat lady. I’ve had cats for all but perhaps six months of my life, and there’s a cat sleeping on my feet even at this moment. I’m always quick to pull out a picture of my McCartney Jane, and I firmly believe she chose me as hers at the second we met.

Cat people get a bad rep. But dog people really aren’t much different. So what’s the big deal?

This is what I know: Regardless of the animal who calls you his or her own, pets are soothing and reliable friends. When I’ve gone through hard times (and I’ve faced plenty of them in recent years!), I can count on my cat to run to my side when she hears me bawling and cuddle up beside me as I face the night.

I think the biggest difference between dog people and cat people may be that dogs are so much better suited for extroverts. They typically love to join their owners on an outing; today I was reminded of how comfortable Mac is with the vet, but also of how much she hates the car. Cat people enjoy their pet’s comfort in the quiet of their own home, often with a good book at their side.

Speaking of, I think I’ll pick up the novel currently sitting beside me and enjoy it with my cat at my feet. I’ve always been comfortable in my role as a bookworm, and I’ve been a crazy cat lady for even longer.

The #bloglikecrazy prompt for day two was to defend something that usually gets a bad rap. And well, whether I’ve done crazy cat ladies justice or not, I’m hanging out with the best pet that ever was. Oh, and today’s subject line comes from the Old ’97s song “Murder or a Heart Attack,” which was written about Rhett Miller’s roommate’s cat.

I don’t know why I feel so tongue tied

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

“When you’ve set an intention for your practice, bring your hands to your heart.”

Every Monday afternoon, I return to my yoga mat and focus on what I need in my life. That may be the physical routine that I’m about to participate in. It may be 75 minutes of quiet before I resume what is likely to be a jam-packed week. But regardless of what has brought me there or how long it’s been since I’ve slowed my breath and focused my mind, two words often return to the forefront: Seek peace.

I’m approaching a year of regular yoga practice, and in many ways, it’s unlike anything I’ve done before. I take 75 to 90 minute sessions, several times a week, to slow down and breathe. And I often tell my yoga-skeptical friends that I could walk into that room, assume child’s pose and then focus on my breathe, then leave in a better frame of mind than that in which I arrived.

This slowing down, both of the mind and of the body, has always been a struggle for me. I love information and learning, and I’m constantly filling my world with more, more, more. Just this afternoon I plowed through a stack of New Yorker and New York magazines, moving them from my bedroom floor to the recycling bin in an act of self improvement and cleaning.

Finding that solace in motion is a new act for me; though I cheered and danced in high school, those physical activities filled my mind rather than slowing it down until facing my issues became unavoidable. But even though finding that space in movement is something different, I’ve always been able to sort my thoughts and clear my mind through writing.

I decided I wanted to become a writer when I was in fifth grade. By that point, I’d already written a book and a play or two. (I still have the transcripts, though not in their original forms, around here somewhere.) But I distinctly remember finding myself more through my pen than any other medium when I was 10 years old. I was a pretty normal kid who loved riding bikes, watching Nickelodeon and reciting every word to the week’s episode of Full House, but I best expressed myself in writing.

That’s still true, and that’s also why I periodically turn to this blog. This space is one where I offer myself grace; I’m regularly writing and editing in my full-time job, adjunct instructor position and freelance work. I turn to my journal when I need to sort things out. But expressing myself in a public venue is another way of stretching this writing muscle and challenging my introverted self. That’s why I’m coming up on 10 years of blogging (come March), and that’s why I continue to unveil my heart in a rather public space.

Like so many of my fellow Birmingham writers, I’ve decided to participate in my friend, fellow board member and freelance writer Javacia Harris Bowser’s November #bloglikecrazy challenge. I’ve admittedly jumped on board late; this effort began Nov. 1, and here we are, 11 days into the month. But again, this is a space where I show myself grace, which I must confess is not my strongest suit. I suspect I’ll benefit from accepting a challenge to write (in a public way, no less) every day for a month. I’m not particularly concerned about the date on which I begin this journey.

As I’ve grown older, and particularly since I’ve entered my thirties, I’ve gotten increasingly better at focusing on the intentions I have set for my life, then evaluating the steps I’m taking to achieve those goals (or the acts that are taking me away from them). Yoga is one of the means by which I’ve seen myself become stronger, more focused and more confident. Writing has always been a key part of that, as well. Just as I intend to return to my mat and face what I find there, day after day, I aim to pick up the pen or keyboard and release the words and thoughts I so often repress. I know myself, and thereby am more open to others, when I do.

Today’s subject line comes from Radiohead’s “Myxomatosis,” which is fabulous for so many reasons.

Am I smarter than John Archibald?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

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I’m stinking it up in my college football picks this season (I believe I’m currently 20 games behind first, though I will point out that I won in 2004. Resting on my laurels like the Bama fan I am!). Regardless, this week I got to pick against Birmingham News/Birmingham magazine columnist John Archibald. I’m fairly sure I’ll beat him out on the Auburn/Georgia game.

My ink-stained life

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley
FaulknerSlossGood CoffeeHatch postcardsKentuck 2003Labor and Wait
Mystery and MagicNOLAOld CoatPatty GriffinBirmingham magazinePure Coffee
SemicolonsSteel and MagicStructureTimeWhisk Me AwayPrimavera

Ink-Stained Life, a set on Flickr.

It may be easy to guess why I named my blog Ink-Stained Life. I’m a writer, after all, and as a result I often end up with ink all over my hands. (I still prefer to draft lengthy stories by hand. Somehow it helps me get away from my internal editor and just write.)

But it’s also a reflection of the ink that permeates my house. I fell in love with letterpress prints while in graduate school at Alabama. I lived on the same block as Kentuck Art Center, a fabulous little gallery that annually hosts the Kentuck Festival of the Arts in a park nearby. The gallery participated in Northport’s monthly art nights; the first Thursday of each month, galleries stay open late and offer incentives for patrons to come visit. (The event has since expanded to include Tuscaloosa galleries, as well.) Sometimes the incentives were food or drink. Sometimes they were art openings, frequently with the artist on hand. It was during one such event that I wandered down to the gallery and met Amos Paul Kennedy Jr.

I walked into Kentuck and was awestruck by a wall covered with Kennedy’s letterpress prints. Each was unique, and they were all priced at $10. “I can afford an original piece of art?” I thought to myself. As a grad student, that was a surprising idea indeed.

I spent a long time examining each poster, trying to select just the right one to take home. (Yes, they were $10, but I was still too cheap to buy more than one! Remember, I was living on student loans and dreaming of a future in the high-paid field of journalism.) I finally settled on a patchwork-like Good Coffee poster. Kennedy autographed the poster, and I returned home to tack it to the wall in my bedroom. And just like that, an addiction was born.

I’ve since framed that first purchase, and I’ve bought so many more, from Kennedy and others, that I don’t have space in my home or office to hang them all. (Nor do I have the budget to frame them all! the problem with letterpress posters is they’re frequently odd sizes and require custom frames, which means the frame usually costs much more than the artwork inside.) Because letterpress and other forms of printing are generally accessible art, I also have met and in some cases am friends with the artists whose work hangs throughout my home.

My life has become ink-stained in more ways than one. The words that decorate my walls are a constant reminder of beliefs I hold dear, hopes I hold close and people I adore.

Lessons from 30

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I began the countdown to 30 days before my 29th birthday. Years earlier, a guy I was dating told me he was excited about his 30s because he believed it would be a decade during which he’d settle into who he was (which, of course, we tend to spend our 20s sorting out). Many girl friends had told me they spent their 29th years dreading 30, only to arrive and discover it was their best year yet.

The first six months of 30 probably were among my best yet, but the second half of the year was filled with challenges. Still, as I turned 31 this week I looked back on the year past with a lot of gratitude. I’ve learned a lot, and as one friend said in her birthday wish, I get to spend this year (and the rest of my life) putting it into practice. That really is quite a gift.

Lessons from 30

  • It’s OK to let go a little bit. It actually feels pretty great not to perfectly plan every situation.
  • But it’s also OK that I am such a planner. That’s part of who I am, and it’s also part of what makes me good at my work.
  • I don’t have to be best friends with everyone. There’s a difference between close friends and acquaintances. Both are great.
  • Sitting at the brewery with a book isn’t only a good way to spend an hour; it’s also a conversation starter.
  • Some things are options, not obligations. Learn to differentiate, and give yourself the freedom to say no.
  • Taking care of myself is about more than small indulgences such as a cup of coffee at my favorite coffee shop.
  • I am stronger than I believed.
  • That goes for both physical and emotional strength. I’ve learned that lessons learned on the yoga mat often translate to life off of it.
  • Sometimes the sweetest sound isn’t a song, but instead the quiet of my house and thoughts.
  • People care about me more than I often believe they do. And they go out of their way to show it.
  • Teaching others also teaches me a lot about myself. It gives me confidence in management and also encourages me to assess how I interact in both professional and personal settings.
  • There’s no greater decision than opening up to love, even when the outcome isn’t what I hoped.
  • There’s so much left to learn.

    • Seeking peace in downward-facing dog

    Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

    Yoga and I are still in the early blush of our relationship. It’s like dating a new, wonderful man: I can’t stop talking about how great this is, how it’s different than anything I’ve experienced before, how hopeful I am for the future. I’ve been practicing for several months now, and regularly attending classes for two. We’re deep enough in this relationship to give me the confidence that it will last a while.

    The instructor whose class I attended last night often asks us to set an intention for our practice. She said the word strength had come up several times in her day, and so she focused on that throughout the class.

    As I hung in down dog, I ruminated on her words. Yoga is a place of strength. I’ve fallen in love with yoga for its mental benefits; because there’s such emphasis on the breath and focusing on the present moment, practicing yoga helps me slow down, eases tension and allows anything I need to deal with to bubble to the surface. It’s often a physical manifestation of mental strength, as we breathe into difficult postures and endure discomfort because we know it will lead to a greater good. And the physical results are a manifestation of that: Though it generally isn’t why I practice, I can’t deny that I love the muscle I’ve developed.

    As we moved into half-pigeon, the instructor began talking about vulnerability as the opposite of strength. I’ve learned a lot about vulnerability in the past year, about letting people into my life and admitting when times are hard and I don’t have it all together. I’m an independent person, but I don’t believe people are meant to face life on their own. I’ve learned to soften and to listen to the encouragement others offer (and I think that’s shown me how strong I can be). I’m not one to quote scripture in every situation, but a portion of 2 Corinthians 12:9 came to mind: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

    I’m in the middle of a rough patch, where I’m being shown both how strong I am and how many people are willing to be strong for me when I’m not capable. (I even talked to the yoga teacher before class, and she paid me special attention throughout, showing grace to a near-perfect stranger.) I’m grateful for these quiet moments when I can seek peace.

    I’m biting my lip as confidence is speaking to me

    Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

    I’ve spent most of my life on intellectual pursuits. I learned to read early and have had my nose in a book until bedtime on most nights since I was 4. I sobbed when I brought home my first B. As an adult, I’ve supplemented driving and chores with podcasts. Part of the reason I love journalism is because I’m constantly learning. Yes, I spent several years as a cheerleader and dancer. But as much as I loved my increased flexibility and the adrenaline rush of performance, I was enamored by my philosophy of supporting the school and the intellectual challenge of perfecting a series of movements.

    This all occurred to me tonight as I rested on my living room floor in child’s pose. I’ve never loved exercise, and I’m fortunate that my high metabolism has yet to make it an obviously pressing need. But I’m drawn to yoga because it helps me slow my mind and relax–a lesson I’ve never managed to glean from books.

    This year has been filled with changes that have taught me so much. I’m still trying to develop a regular yoga habit, yes. But I’ve also branched out in other ways. It’s been a year when I’ve dated more (and found someone who I care about deeply). I’ve always had a handful of close friends, but in my teens and 20s I thought I needed to be friends with everyone. In 2011, I’ve seen my social circle shrink as I’ve begun to accept that some people are acquaintances, and I’ve seen it expand as other acquaintances become friends. I am facing exciting professional challenges as the magazine where I work approaches its 50th anniversary. I’ve seen friends struggle with too many less-thrilling challenges of their own, and I’ve tried to be supportive and apologize when I fall short.

    I’ve read far fewer books in 2011 than is my norm, but I hope the lessons I’m learning make as great an impact as the knowledge I’ve always sought in more academic outlets.

    Today’s subject line is a lyric from “Give Out” by Sharon Van Etten, whose music I’m currently obsessed with.

    Simple as it should be

    Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

    I was still comfortably ensconced in my mid-20s when I was first told the distinction between the second and third decades of life. A man I was dating turned 29 and began contemplating what 30 would have in store for him. “I’ve loved my 20s,” he said, “but I’m really looking forward to my 30s. The 20s are when you’re figuring out who you are and what you’re doing in life. I think my 30s will be when I settle into that.”

    I’ve heard that theory repeated many times since, and so my enthusiastic countdown to 30 began during my 29th birthday party (which took place more than a week before my 29th birthday–the joy being born near a holiday!). Maybe I’ve placed unreasonable expectations on my 30s, but the past two-and-a-half months have been a strong start.

    And I’m trying to make some concerted changes that will benefit the rest of my life. I’ve always been slim, but with the exception of five years of high school cheerleading and dance, I’ve never been much for an exercise routine. But I want to enjoy every year I’ve got, and even now, when I’m young and healthy, I feel much better about myself when I exercise. So I’m trying to develop a habit.

    Yoga’s my activity of choice because it slows my otherwise-active mind, forcing me to focus on how my body feels in the present. Tonight I practiced outside at the Alys Stephens Center, my mat pointed at a towering sculpture and my breath often in sync with my friend Laura Kate. Halfway through the hour-long class, rain gently began to gently fall on us. I was skeptical at first as my mat became slick (always cautious!), but we quickly moved to ground work, where I didn’t have to worry about slipping. As cars drove through UAB’s campus and rain fell on my face, I thought to myself, “Yes. I need to make this a habit. I need to take better care of myself. I need to be in the moment, even as I plan for tomorrow.”

    I hope that’s a significant part of what my 30s–and beyond–will prove to be about.