contemplation

Disconnect: shut up, unplug, go DO something

Submitted by domesticat on 1 March 2010 - 6:47pm

Just so everyone's clear: it's not you, it's me.

I have 'fond' (those are air quotes) memories in the past of people pronouncing "I'm leaving!" in a huff, while taking a big pause at the metaphorical door (these are online communities we're talking about here, so all doors are metaphorical) to see if anyone cried out "Noooo! Don't leave us!"

There's a difference between doing what I just described, and recognizing that you are overloaded and distracted and just pulling the plug without telling anyone ahead of time.

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Continuity: the quilt

Submitted by domesticat on 7 January 2010 - 6:38pm

I think back, and I know exactly where it started: a double wedding ring quilt that was sewn by my father's mother. I didn't know her well; let's just say there were severe family differences, but I was too young to be cognizant of that fact at the time. I just knew that I liked the quilt, and it kept me warm. When I look back through the eyes of adulthood, the eyes of someone who has now made a few quilts of her own, I know it was probably pieced out of clothing scraps, and the centers were either plain white cotton or unbleached muslin.

The batting was cotton. It's why I still like the low, dense loft of cotton now. I remember how this quilt felt against my body as a child, and that I seek that same sensation in quilts now. Polyester has the same warmth, but it's weirdly fluffy to me.

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A year without words

Submitted by domesticat on 5 January 2010 - 7:10pm

I've been thinking.  Not "I've been thinking" in terms of a lunch, an hour, an afternoon, a weekend, a month.  More like taking a month of Sundays to think.  A year, more like.  A year where nobody really heard from me, or might hear a sporadic email or call every now and then.  Little past that, and little of substance.  Little of it can be shared at all, much less publicly. Not all the stories I have in my head are mine to tell.

2009 -- would I repeat it again, given the chance?  Yes, I think I would, but I wish I'd had some idea ahead of time how much of a struggle it would be, personally and professionally. 

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Thoughts on someone else's thoughts

Submitted by domesticat on 2 June 2009 - 8:27am

Those of you who have been reading here for a long time know that I don't often just post links to other articles. It's not my style to publish things without writing my own commentary, but I'll say this:  Take ten minutes out of your life to read this.

http://jeff.viapositiva.net/archives/2009/06/thoughts-murder

It won't go in the direction you probably think it'll go.

Take a moment—we none of us do that action enough, really—and think about who you are today, and who you once were.  Are you the same?  How have you changed?  Do you carry your life, your actions, your words with grace? 

Jeff—my Jeff, the spouseling, not the Jeff Eaton of this blog post—said something to me over the years that I have greatly appreciated: you cannot be the person you are today without the person you once were.

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middle ground (updated!)

Submitted by domesticat on 3 February 2009 - 10:19am

I've had my head firmly buried in Drupal for nearly two years now, and it's starting to show.  I've come a long way.  My starting point was "I have seen mentions of this software, I do not know what it does, but it might suit our needs."  Since then I've progressed to having built a multi-site install, managed by CVS—entirely on my own.  The development of my knowledge can be traced on my user account on drupal.org; my questions have slowly become more knowledgeable as I've fought my way—solo—through two very difficult conversions/migrations and a few others that were significantly easier.

The question:  what now?

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meltdown

Submitted by domesticat on 11 January 2009 - 11:44pm

I will be glad when this is over.

This has been a two-week span in which it felt like nothing went right, in which events would seem to fall into place only to spin out, away from my hands, out of my control yet again. Repeat ad infinitum, two weeks and counting.

I thought meltdowns were supposed to be teary, sobbing water fountains.  Instead, it was the hollowness of sitting on my spot on the couch on a Sunday morning and realizing I felt out of my depth, overwhelmed, and unable to exert any kind of control over the situation.

A situation which, Jeff has reminded me, I couldn't have fixed from the start.

* * * * *

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