balanced rocks, remic rapids

There's a spot on the Ottawa River, not so far from my house where artist John Felice Ceprano creates beautiful, delicate, balanced sculptures from the river's abundant limestone. The sculptures change with the seasonal ebbs and flows of the river. He recreates the project each spring, populating the space as the river water recedes, an entire landscape created by the end of Fall. Then, through winter and spring, the temporary sculptures are knocked down, the space emptying but for a few standing rocks. Sometimes, you can catch Ceprano at work, but most often the sculptures seem to arise from nothing.

I love land-based art, especially when it utilizes local materials in a sustainable way. Ceprano's Ottawa River sculpture reminds me of Andy Goldsworthy's work:


Living in Ottawa often feels lonely, too far away from the people and places I love. When I go to Remic Rapids, I like to walk across the flat limestone and wade through the water. If there is space enough, I will lie down on the rock and look up at the sky. For a moment, amidst all of these rocks, I can feel like I'm in the desert. Last fall, when my parents were visiting, Ceprano was at work, so we talked to him for awhile. He told us that Southern Utah's canyon country was part of the inspiration for the work, so it's no wonder that I feel so at home here.

This week has been ridiculously hot, too hot to go outside, too hot to be inside. Miserable. One evening, the densely humid air made for spectacular light. The sun was a brilliant red globe, the surrounding sky gray. We went to the river to watch the sun, to wade in the cool water. It felt as thought everyone there was letting out a slow sigh to have just a moment's respite from the heat.

motherhood, the first week

Wow. What a ridiculously amazing, terrifying, exhausting, exhilarating week this has been. People tell you it will change everything, but I had no idea. No idea.

What startles me most, perhaps, about this motherhood experience is how biologically driven it is. When Imogen was born, I thought she looked like Will. I didn't see myself at all. My sister kept pointing our things that were like me, but I didn't see it. Then, a day later, I was looking in the mirror and suddenly I looked like her. I didn't look like myself at all. I had the same experience with Will. He no longer looked like himself, but like Imogen. It was as if the only face I could see was hers. My own face is back, but this little girl's face and its connection to both me and Will is firmly imprinted in my mind. (And then there are those other bits of biology: the ridiculous emotions, the breasts that immediately respond to her cries and stirrings).

I am also amazed by how much of an individual she already is. My first impression of her was a lucky one, I think. As soon as she was born, she was whisked away by a pediatrician who wanted to check her out for any ill effects caused by a fever I had during labor. I didn't get to hold her right away, but could only stare at her from across the room. She was a crier, bursting out into a wail the moment she exited my body. I watched her from my bed, this beautiful, flailing creature and my first thought was, Here is this woman, Imogen, already herself. My job is just to help her on her journey. I am glad to have had this experience because I know that for as much as she is mine, she is not mine.

She is a lovely girl, sweet and mellow. For all the ferocity of her first cry, she hardly cries now. Perhaps that is because we dote on her and respond quickly to any sound she makes. But I suspect it's also because she's a happy one. I am lucky and tired and overwhelmed. But mostly lucky.

late nights on air

Last night, I couldn't sleep because I was caught up in nostalgia--a very specific moment of my childhood, a memory I couldn't stop thinking about. I was a kid, small enough to stand upright in a car without hitting my head. I was driving somewhere with my grandpa and my dad, my grandpa driving his metallic green Pontiac. I was standing in the back seat, leaning over the front. We were drinking little cans of V8. The hot, Utah sun was pushing through the windows making the vinyl seats sticky and smelly. The radio was on, that tinny hollow of an AM car radio.

The radio is what started me thinking about this memory, that sound that only old AM radios can make, that sound that makes some songs sound so impossibly perfect. I'd been thinking about old country songs from the sixties and seventies and how much I like them and how my reason for liking them was very much because of the drone of the AM radio in a sunny, sleepy car.

So, here for you are a couple of songs which may not sound as good as they should in their MP3-ness, but maybe they will take you to a sunny car somewhere perfect, some time ago.

By The Time I Get To Phoenix -...

Amarillo By Morning - George S...

Too Many Students in College? Follow-up

So, I know you've all been waiting anxiously for my continued discussion on this topic. You probably had a difficult time eating all of that Thanksgiving pie because of the anticipation (by the way, at my Thanksgiving I learned that a food baby and a real baby cannot coexist inside me).

I just finished reading comments from my students about this question (they were reading about the culture of schooling last week), and I wish that we faculty could have more conversations with our students about our shared investment in and concerns for education. My students' comments covered the range of views, but surprisingly more seemed to be on the side of yes, there are too many students in college. (My favorite comment of them all was the suggestion that funding problems might be ameliorated a bit by not, for instance, commissioning large sculptures of say, a bruin). What to make of this leaning towards too many students when all of these students are currently in college? (of course, some of them are likely not in a transfer program, but pursuing a 2-year certificate or degree). Do they feel that they are the exceptions to the various reasons they stated students shouldn't be in college (mainly not serious enough, not focused in a specific direction, etc.)? Or would they prefer that they could pursue a more "vocational" career, but feel stuck in college because of its acquired/ perceived status?

In their discussion, my students presented some solutions to the "too many" problem and the general lack of preparation they feel many have for college (both in terms of general knowledge/ skills and the ability to efficiently navigate an educational/ career path). Many of their suggestions focused on high school: better academic preparation, more transitional assistance, improved career guidance. They expressed a need for more knowledge about what type of education their career goals demanded and more direct connection between their high school and college academic work. One student suggest that only well-established adults (she's a returning student) should go to college because newly graduated high school students aren't mature enough to take advantage of the college experience.

One of the proposed solutions for the "too many" problem was making a societal shift away from the stigma of vocational education and careers. The underlying assumption here, of course, seems to be that while some students would possibly prefer a vocational education, they desire the social/ economic status that a college education implies--a comment that Middlebrow made previously.

Reading all of your comments and those of my students has been really insightful for me, but I still feel like I have no clear response of my own response to the initial question. One of my students declared, "I'm glad I'm not the person who gets paid to make these sorts of decisions." I feel the same way, except I do feel some responsibility with regard to this issue. Not that anyone's going to pay me, or allow me to make the big decisions, but still. . .

I agree that some students are in college because of perceived value, because it's presented as the necessary step for success and economic stability. I suspect that flexibility is the primary attribute for economic stability, and I'm not sure how a college degree would rate on acquisition of this trait in comparison to other educational/ training paths. I also don't feel that I have a clear sense of the range of career options and how a college degree is considered in various careers. I have a cousin who is a bank branch manager, a job I would have originally thought required a bachelor's degree. But she doesn't have one. I don't think the true value of various degrees is clearly known to most people, but what is known is the assumed value of those degrees. More thorough and direct information about career options and pathways would be valuable, I think. (Of course, it's probably hard to generalize on this one since there is likely endless variation in how individuals got the job they have). Ultimately, I think it would be of great value for us to engage in more discussion about the class-based assumptions we place on degrees and careers.

Although I can see that there are problems with continually increasing college enrollments and that there are/ should be more options than a 4-year degree, I worry that suggesting college is only for certain types will shut down the open access that makes our educational system so great (imho).

For me, this is a very personal issue at the moment. I have a niece who is 20(ish?). She has an extremely poor academic record, only recently getting her GED. She is smart, but she has had a difficult time with schooling for a long list of reasons. She is currently pregnant and is planning to raise the child herself. She has a limited work history, and she just started community college. She is uncertain about what she wants to do, but she knows she needs to do something. At the beginning of the semester, she was absolutely terrified, unsure about whether she would be able to manage her coursework. She seems to be doing well, she's feeling more confident, and she's made a start. She is able to make this beginning--as vague and uncertain as it may be--because college of some kind is available for everyone. There is no one telling her that she is too unprepared, that there isn't enough room, that she needs to have a definite plan. She can make a start, and right now that is probably all she is capable of. While I recognize that open access and high enrollments brings a whole collection of challenges, challenges that no one is really sure how to respond to, I can't help but think of my niece and other students I've had just like her, who didn't really know what they were doing and were completely unprepared, but just needed a place to start, a place to hope. How can we take that away from anyone?

too much higher education?

This week, the Chronicle posted a forum which explored the question: Are Too Many Students Going to College? You can read the forum and accompanying reader comments here. You can also read NY Times' reader comments about the issue at the Choice Blog.

I have a seemingly endless collection of thoughts about all of this, but too many to sort out at this moment. Since so many of you reading this blog are my cc colleagues, I'm wondering what you think, particularly in terms of our continual budget cuts. Some specific questions I'd love to hear your thoughts about:

• How do we encourage continuation of the social contract that allows open access to education?
• Assuming the continued reality of budget cuts, do we strive for open enrollment with perhaps lesser (cheaper) forms of instructional delivery or do we impose caps to preserve quality of education?
• What do you think about the basic questions--do too many students go to college?

I'm going to write about this more later, once I get my thoughts sorted and coherent, but I look forward to hearing what you think.

Miracle Cure Confirmed

Throughout my many years of voice problems, while everyone is promoting herbal teas and honey and lemon juice and whatever else is supposed to cure me, the only folk cure that I've found any solace in is chocolate milk. If my voice is really terrible and my vocal chords horribly inflamed, the only non-pharmaceutical remedy that works is chocolate milk. Somehow the chocolate milk just soothed my throat and cleared things up for a while, allowing my non-existent voice to gain some sound and clarity.

People have always looked at me askance when I tell them about my chocolate milk cure. But I know what I know.

And now today--vindication! Check out this research summary which suggests that chocolate milk may reduce inflammation. They are actually talking about athersclerosis, but inflammation is inflammation right? And my voice issue is ultimately about inflamed vocal chords. So there, doubters. Chocolate milk is a miracle cure.

Homesick

This morning, I idly clicked on a RadioWest podcast because I saw it was about Doug Snow, an artist I admire, an artist who has captured the landscapes of Southern Utah better than anyone I've seen. As the interview was introduced, Doug Fabrizio mentioned that it was a rebroadcast of a 2004 interview and that Douglas Snow had died. Nothing could have made me sadder. Or more homesick.

When I was twenty, my dad took me on a backpacking trip to the Grand Canyon. Climbing deep into the canyon, watching layers of rock overlapping each other to seemingly endless depths along the horizon, I fell absolutely in love with the canyon country. These places became, and will always be, home for me. There was something astounding in that landscape--the deep sky of stars I felt I could slide right into against the folds of walls and canyons.

There is something ineffable about that landscape. It is hard to capture in words and images and no matter how many times you find yourself in in, it is always surprising. For me, Doug Snow is the only artist whose really come close to conveying the truth of these landscapes I love. In his 2004 interview, he talked about how he looked for honesty in art, for perspectives that move beyond what he already knows. He commented that he found much of the art of the red rock country "reduced [the landscape] to a series of formulas." This is what I like about Snow, that his paintings of the red rock country move far beyond the confines of the representational landscape and yet they always elicit the emotion and the essence of the landscape. His paintings startle and move me in the same way the landscape does.

This is something Snow wrote in a journal, a sentiment that was included in his eulogy:

"To be in this country; to live in it much of your life; to understand its geology, its history, to see it in all its seasons, and still, ultimately, to know nothing that can summarize it. All you can do is have faith in the strength of the experience, paint, 'not knowing,' but with conviction in the significance of those feelings."

I have so many projects that involve trying to characterize red rock landscapes, complicated stories about my family and my life. It's such a challenge. And in Snow's comments, I find good advice and comfort. There is nothing that can summarize that landscape. But I can have faith in the strength of my experiences.